B    3    3Eh    155 


N  ROTWO 


"  Take  care  of  Lily 


THE 


Bishop  of  Cottontown 

A  STORY  OF  THE  SOUTHERN 
COTTON  MILLS 


i  '  J    3      a »  > 

BY 

•    »         J*  **»'«•*    *     I          "*0*      »*'.    '      *«     4    «*  *J-> 

JOHN  TROTWOOD  MOORE 


AUTHOR     OF 

'A.     Summer      Hymnal,"       ^"Ole     Mistis,"        "Songs     and     Stories 
from     Tennessee,"     etc. 


ILLUSTRATED   BY  THE    KINNEY3 


"And  each  in  his  separate  star, 
Shall  paint  the  thing  as  he  sees  it 

For  the  God  of  Things  As  They  Are." 

Kipling 


PHILADELPHIA 

THE  JOHN  C.  WINSTON  COMPANY 
1906 


*>Y    JOHN    TROTWOOD    MOORE 
Entered  at   Stationers'   Hall,   London,    1906 


All  Rights  Reserved 


IN    MEMORY    OF    MY    MOTHER, 

EMILY  BILLIXGSLEA  MOORE, 

WHO  DIED 
DECEMBER    14TH,    190M, 

THE    FAITH    OF    THIS    BOOK    BEING    HKBS 


M71832 


CONTENTS 

APTEB  PAGE 

PART  FIRST  — THE  BLOOM. 

PROLOGUE  —  THE  COTTON  BLOSSOM 7 

PART    SECOND  — THE   BOLL. 

I.  COTTON 13 

II.  RICHARD  TRAVIS 18 

III.  JUD  CARPENTER 27 

IV.  FOOD  FOR  THE  FACTORY 39 

V.  THE  FLY  CATCHER  CAUGHT 50 

VI.  THE  FLINT  AND  THE  COAL 64 

VII.  HILLARD  WATTS 84 

VIII.  WESTMORELAND '  .  .  92 

IX.  A  MUTUAL  UNDERSTANDING 103 

X.  A  STAR  AND  A  SATELLITE 108 

XL  A  MIDNIGHT  BURIAL 117 

XII.  JACK  BRACKEN 127 

PART  THIRD  — THE  GIN. 

I.     ALICE  WESTMORE 143 

II.    THE  REAL  HEROES 151 

III.     FRANKLIN 154 

PART    FOURTH  — THE   LINT. 

I.       COTTONTOWN 179 

II.  BEN   BUTLER 187 

III.  AN  ANSWER  TO  PRAYER 199 

IV.  How  THE  BISHOP  FROZE     .    P.-    *     i<    ..;•:;$'    .      .  205 

V.  THE  FLOCK     . ".  'V;u,T    .      .  209 

VI.  A  BISHOP  MILITANT     .      .     A.'*  ^W  .7  :/***>#    •      .213 

VII.    MARGARET  ADAMS  .  219 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

VIII.  HARD-SHELL  SUNDAY 226 

IX.  THE  RETURN 232 

X.  THE  SWAN  SONG  OF  THE  CREPE  MYRTLE  ....  239* 

XI.  THE  CASKET  AND  THE  GHOST 248 

XII.  'A  MIDNIGHT  GUARD 254 

XIII.  THE  THEFT  OF  A  CHILDHOOD 258 

XIV.  UNCLE  DAVE'S  WILL 275 

XV.  EDWARD   CON  WAY 287 

XVI.  HELEN'S  DESPAIR 296 

XVII.  THE   WHIPPER-IN      .      .     .     ..,»,-     •     •     •  305 

XVIII.  SAMANTHA    CAREWE 312 

XIX.  A  QUICK  CONVERSION 317 

XX.  A  LIVE  FUNERAL 326 

XXI.  JACK  AND  THE  LITTLE  ONES 336 

XXII.  THE  BROKEN  THREAD     .      .      .     .     •*''•'  il  'V     /    .  344 

XXIII.  GOD  WILL  PROVIDE 350 

XXIV.  BONAPARTE'S  WATERLOO 355 

XXV.  A  BORN  NATURALIST 366 

XXVI.  BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE 380 

XXVII.  YOU'LL  COME  BACK  A  MAN 414 

PART  FIFTH  — THE  LOOM. 

I.  A  NEW  MILL  GIRL  .     .     ,   ...    ".".',, ,/.«/  .     J     .  419 

II.  IN  THE  DEPTHS 431 

III.  WORK  IN  A  NEW  LIGHT 438 

IV.  MAGGIE r. ..  .,, ., 443 

V.  PAY-DAY 447 

VI.  THE    PLOT 456 

VII.  MRS.  WESTMORE  TAKES  A  HAND 464 

VIII.  A  QUESTION  BROUGHT  HOME         .     , 473 

IX.  THE  PEDIGREE  OF  ACHIEVEMENT 487 

X.  MARRIED  IN  GOD'S  SIGHT 493 

XI.  THE  QUEEN  Is  DEAD 499 

XII.  IN  THYSELF  THERE  Is  WEAKNESS 608 

XIII.  HIMSELF  AGAIN       .    •«,-.,*  .-*•  ,* 512 

XIV.  THE  JOY  OF  THE  MORNING 51° 

XV.  THE  TOUCH  OF  GOD 526 

XVI.  MAMMY  MARIA 63<ii 


CONTENTS  3 

CHAPTER  pAGE 

XVII.     THE  DOUBLE  THAT  DIED 545 

XVIII.     THE  DYING  LION 552 

XIX.  FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  DEATH     ....                    504 

XX.  THE  ANGEL  WITH  THE  FLAMING  SWORD  ....  572 

XXI.     THE  GREAT   FIRE 531 

XXII.     A  CONWAY  AGAIN 533 

XXIII.  DIED  FOR  THE  LAW 595 

XXIV.  THE   ATONEMENT .611 

XXV.     THE  SHADOWS  AND  THE  CLOUDS 624 

XXVI.  THE  MODEL  MILL     ....                                .  f>33 


PART  FIRST  —  THE  BLOOM 


THE  COTTON  BLOSSOM 

THE  cotton  blossom  is  the  only  flower  that  is  born  in 
the  shuttle  of  a  sunbeam  and  dies  in  a  loom. 

It  is  the  most  beautiful  flower  that  grows,  and 
needs  only  to  become  rare  to  be  priceless  —  only  to 
die  to  be  idealized. 

For  the  world  worships  that  which  it  iiopes  to  attain, 
and  our  ideals  are  those  things  just  out  of  our  reach. 

Satiety  has  ten  points  and  possession  is  nine  of  them. 

If,  in  early  August,  the  delicately  green  leaves  of  this 
most  aristocratic  of  all  plants,  instead  of  covering  acres 
of  Southland  shimmering  under  a  throbbing  sun,  peeped 
daintily  out,  from  among  the  well-kept  beds  of  some 
noble  garden,  men  would  flock  to  see  that  plant,  which, 
of  all  plants,  looks  most  like  a  miniature  tree. 

%A  stout-hearted  plant, —  a  tree,  dwarfed,  but  losing 
not  its  dignity. 

Then,  one  morning,  with  the  earliest  sunrise,  and  born 
of  it,  there  emerges  from  the  scalloped  sea-shell  of  the 
bough  an  exquisite,  pendulous,  cream-white  blossom, 
clasping  in  its  center  a  golden  yellow  star,  pinked  with 
dawn  points  of  light,  and,  setting  high  up  under  its  sky 
of  milk-white  petals  flanked  with  yellow  stars,  it  seems 
to  the  little  nestling  field-wrens  born  beneath  it  to  be 


8  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

the  miniature  arch  of  daybreak,  ere  the  great  eye  of 
the  morning  star  closes. 

Later,  when  the  sun  rises  and  the  sky  above  grows 
pink  and  purple,  it,  too,  changes  its  color  from  pink  to 
pui-ple,  copying  the  sky  from  zone  to  zone,  from  blue  to 
deeper  blue,  until,  at  late  evening  the  young  nestlings 
may  look  up  and  say,  in  their  bird  language :  <k  It  is 
twilight." 

What  other  flower  among  them  can  thus  copy  Nature, 
the  great  master? 

Under  every  sky  is  a  sphere,  and  under  this  sky  pic 
ture,  when  night  falls  and  closes  it,  a  sphere  is  born. 
And  in  that  sphere  is  all  of  earth. 

Its  oils  and  its  minerals  are  there,  and  one  day,  be 
coming  too  full  of  richness,  it  bursts,  and  throws  open  a 
five-roomed  granary,  stored  with  richer  fabric  than  ever 
came  from  the  shuttles  of  Fez  and  holding  globes  of  oil 
such  as  the  olives  of  Hebron  dreamed  not  of. 

And  in  that  fabric  is  the  world  clothed. 

Oh,  little  loom  of  the  cotton-plant,  poet  that  can  show 
us  the  sky,  painter  that  paints  it,  artisan  that  reaches 
out,  and,  from  the  skein  of  a  sunbeam,  the  loom  of  the 
air  and  the  white  of  its  own  soul,  weaves  the  cloth  tljat 
clothes  the  world ! 

From  dawn  and  darkness  building  a  loom.  From 
sunlight  and  shadow  weaving  threads  of  such  fineness 
that  the  spider's  were  ropes  of  sand  and  the  hoar  frost's 
but  clumsy  icicles. 

Weaving  —  weaving  —  weaving  them.  And  the  deli 
cately  patterned  tapestry  of  ever-changing  clouds  form 
ing  patterns  of  a  fabric,  white  as  the  snow  of  the  cen- 


THE  COTTON  BLOSSOM  9 

turies,  determined  that  since  it  has  to  make  the  garments 
of  men,  it  will  make  them  unsullied. 

Oh,  little  plant,  poet,  painter,  master-artisan ! 

It  is  true  to  Nature  to  the  last.  The  summer  wanes 
and  the  winter  comes,  and  when  the  cotton  sphere  bursts, 
'tis  a  ball  of  snow,  but  a  dazzling  white,  spidery  snow, 
which  warms  and  does  not  chill,  brings  comfort  and 
not  care,  wealth  and  the  rich  warm  blood,  and  not  the 
pinches  of  poverty. 

There  are  those  who  cannot  hear  God's  voice  unless 
He  speaks  to  them  in  the  thunders  of  Sinai,  nor  see  Him 
unless  He  flares  before  them  in  the  bonfires  of  a  burning 
bush.  They  grumble  because  His  Messenger  came  to  a 
tribe  in  the  hill  countries  of  Long  Ago.  They  wish  to 
see  the  miracle  of  the  dead  arising.  They  see  not  the 
miracle  of  life  around  them.  Death  from  Life  is  more 
strange  to  them  than  life  from  death. 

'Tis  the  silent  voice  that  speaks  the  loudest.  Did 
Sinai  speak  louder  than  this?  Hear  it: 

"  I  am  a  bloom,  and  yet  I  reflect  the  sky  from  the 
morning's  star  to  the  midnight's.  I  am  a  flower,  yet  I 
show  you  the  heaven  from  the  dawn  of  its  birth  to  the 
twilight  of  its  death.  I  am  a  boll,  and  yet  a  miniature 
earth  stored  with  silks  and  satins,  oils  of  the  olives, 
minerals  of  all  lands.  And  when  I  am  ripe  I  throw  open 
my  five-roomed  granary,  each  fitted  to  the  finger  and 
thumb  of  the  human  hand,  with  a  depth  between, 
equalled  only  by  the  palm." 

O  voice  of  the  cotton-plant,  do  we  need  to  go  to 
oracles  or  listen  for  a  diviner  voice  than  yours  when  thus 
you  tell  us :  Pluck  ? 


PART  SECOND  — THE  BOLL 


11 


CHAPTER  I 

COTTON 

THE  frost  had  touched  the  gums  and  maples  in  the 
Tennessee  Valley,  and  the  wood,  which  lined 
every  hill  and  mountain  side,  looked  like  huge 
flaming  bouquets  —  large  ones,  where  the  thicker  wood 
clustered  high  on  the  side  of  Sand  Mountain  and  stood 
out  in  crimson,  gold  and  yellow  against  the  sky, —  small 
ones,  where  they  clustered  around  the  foot  hills. 

Nature  is  nothing  if  not  sentimental.  She  will  make 
bouquets  if  none  be  made  for  her;  or,  mayhap,  she 
wishes  her  children  to  be,  and  so  makes  them  bouquets 
herself. 

There  was  that  crispness  in  the  air  which  puts  one  to 
wondering  if,  after  all,  autumn  is  not  the  finest  time 
of  the  year. 

It  had  been  a  prosperous  year  in  the  Tennessee  Valley 
—  that  year  of  1874.  And  it  had  brought  a  double 
prosperity,  in  that,  under  the  leadership  of  George  S. 
Houston,  the  white  men  of  the  state,  after  a  desperate 
struggle,  had  thrown  off  the  political  yoke  of  the  negro 
and  the  carpetbagger,  and  once  more  the  Saxon  ruled  in 
the  land  of  his  birth. 

Then  was  taken  a  full,  long,  wholesome,  air-filling 
Anglo-Saxon  breath,  from  the  Tennessee  Valley  to  the 
Gulf.  There  was  a  quickening  of  pulses  that  had  fal- 

13 


14  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

tered,  and  heart-beats  that  had  fluttered,  dumb  and  dis 
couraged,  now  rattled  like  kettle-drums,  to  the  fight  of 
life. 

It  meant  change  —  redemption  —  prosperity.  And 
more:  that  the  white  blood  which  had  made  Alabama, 
need  not  now  leave  her  for  a  home  elsewhere. 

It  was  a  year  glorious,  and  to  be  remembered.  One 
which  marks  an  epoch.  One  wherein  there  is  an  end  of 
the  old  and  a  beginning  of  the  new. 

The  cotton  —  the  second  picking  —  still  whitened 
thousands  of  acres.  There  were  not  hands  enough  to 
pick  it.  The  negroes,  demoralized  for  a  half  score  of 
years  by  the  brief  splendor  of  elevation,  and  backed,  at' 
first,  by  Federal  bayonets  and  afterwards  by  sheer  force 
of  their  own  number  in  elections,  had  been  correspond 
ingly  demoralized  and  shiftless.  True  to  their  instinct 
then,  as  now,  they  worked  only  so  long  as  they  needed 
money.  If  one  day's  cotton  picking  fed  a  negro  for 
five,  he  rested  the  five. 

The  negro  race  does  not  live  to  lay  up  for  a  rainy  day. 

And  so  the  cotton  being  neglected,  its  lengthened  and 
frowseled  locks  hung  from  wide  open  bolls  like  the  locks 
of  a  tawdry  woman  in  early  morning. 

No  one  wranted  it  —  that  is,  wanted  it  bad  enough  to 
pick  it.     For  cotton  was  cheap  that  fall  —  very  cheap 
—  and    picking    cotton     is    a    back-bending    business. 
Therefore  it  hung  its  frowsy  locks  from  the  boll. 

And  nothing  makes  so  much  for  frowsiness  in  the 
cotton  plant,  and  in  woman,  as  to  know  they  are  not 
wanted. 

The  gin -houses  were  yet  full,  tho'  the  gin  had  been 


COTTON  15 

running  day  and  night.  That  which  poured,  like  pul 
verized  snow,  from  the  mouth  of  the  flues  into  the  pick- 
room  —  where  the  cotton  fell  before  being  pressed  into 
bales  —  scarcely  had  time  to  be  tramped  down  and 
packed  off  in  baskets  to  the  tall,  mast-like  screws  which 
pressed  the  bales  and  bound  them  with  ties,  ere  the  seed 
cotton  came  pouring  in  again  from  wagon  bed  and 
basket. 

The  gin  hummed  and  sawed  and  sang  and  creaked, 
but  it  could  not  devour  the  seed  cotton  fast  enough  from 
the  piles  of  the  incoming  fleece. 

Those  grew  lighter  and  larger  all  the  time. 

The  eight  Tennessee  sugar-mules,  big  and  sinewy, 
hitched  to  the  lever  underneath  the  gin-house  at  The 
Gaffs,  sweated  until  they  sprinkled  in  one  continual 
shower  the  path  which  they  trod  around  the  pivot-beam 
from  morning  until  night. 

Around  —  around  —  forever  around. 

For  the  levers  turned  the  pivot-beam,  and  the  pivot- 
beam  turned  the  big  shaft-wheel  which  turned  the  gin- 
wheel,  and  the  gin  had  to  go  or  it  seemed  as  if  the  valley 
would  be  smothered  in  cotton. 

Picked  once,  the  fields  still  looked  like  a  snowfall  in 
November,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible  in  a  land  which 
scarcely  felt  a  dozen  snowfalls  in  as  many  years. 

Dust !  There  is  no  dust  like  that  which  comes  from  a 
gin-house.  It  may  be  tasted  in  the  air.  All  other  dust 
is  gravel  compared  to  the  penetrating  fineness  of  that 
diabolical,  burning  blight  which  flies  out  of  the  lint, 
from  the  thousand  teeth  of  the  gin-saws,  as  diamond 
dust  flies  from  the  file. 


16  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

It  is  all  penetrating^,  consumptive-breeding,  sickening, 
stifling,  suffocating.  It  is  hot  and  has  a  metallic  flavor ; 
and  it  flies  from  the  hot  steel  teeth  of  the  saws,  as 
pestilence  from  the  hot  breath  of  the  swamps. 

It  is  linty,  furry,  tickling,  smothering,  searing. 

It  makes  one  wonder  why,  in  picturing  hell,  no  priest 
ever  thought  of  filling  it  with  cotton-gin  dust  instead  of 
fire. 

And  it  clings  there  from  the  Lint  to  the  Loom. 

Small  wonder  that  the  poor  little  white  slaves,  taking 
up  their  serfdom  at  the  loom  where  the  negro  left  off  at 
the  lint,  die  like  pigs  in  a  cotton-seed  pen. 

There  was  cotton  everywhere  —  in  the  fields,  un 
picked;  in  the  gin-houses,  unginned.  That  in  the  fields 
would  be  plowed  under  next  spring,  presenting  the 
strange  anomaly  of  plowing  under  one  crop  to  raise 
another  of  the  same  kind.  But  it  has  been  done  many 
times  in  the  fertile  Valley  of  the  Tennessee. 

There  is  that  in  the  Saxon  race  that  makes  it  discon 
tented,  even  with  success. 

There  was  cotton  everywhere;  it  lay  piled  up  around 
the  gin-houses  and  screws  and  negro-cabins  and  under 
the  sheds  and  even  under  the  trees.  All  of  it,  which  was 
exposed  to  the  weather,  was  in  bales,  weighing  each  a 
fourth  of  a  ton  and  with  bulging  white  spots  in 
their  bellies  where  the  coarse  cotton  baling  failed  to 
cover  their  nakedness. 

It  was  cotton  —  cotton  —  cotton.  Seed, —  ginned, — 
lint, —  baled, —  cotton. 

The  Gaffs  was  a  fine  estate  of  five  thousand  acres 
which  had  been  handed  down  for  several  generations. 


COTTON  17 

The  old  home  sat  in  a  grove  of  hickory,  oak  and  elm 
trees,  on  a  gentle  slope.  Ancient  sentinels,  and  they 
were  there  when  the  first  Travis  came  from  North  Caro 
lina  to  the  Tennessee  Valley  and  built  his  first  double- 
log  cabin  under  the  shelter  of  their  arms. 

From  the  porch  of  The  Gaffs, —  as  the  old  home  was 
called  —  the  Tennessee  River  could  be  seen  two  miles 
away,  its  brave  swift  channel  glittering  like  the  flash  of 
a  silver  arrow  in  the  dark  green  wood  which  bordered  it. 

Back  of  the  house  the  mountain  ridge  rolled ;  not  high 
enough  to  be  awful  and  unapproachable,  nor  so  low  as 
to  breed  contempt  from  a  too  great  familiarity.  Not 
grand,  but  the  kind  one  loves  to  wander  over. 


CHAPTER  II 

RICHARD      TRAVIS 

STRENGTH  was  written  in  the  face  of  Richard 
Travis  —  the  owner  of  The  Gaffs  —  intellectual, 
physical,  passion-strength,  strength  of  purpose 
and  of  doing.  Strength,  but  not  moral  strength;  and 
hence  lacking  all  of  being  all-conquering. 

He  had  that  kind  of  strength  which  made  others  think 
as  he  thought,  and  do  as  he  would  have  them  do.  He 
saw  things  clearly,  strongly,  quickly.  His  assurance 
made  all  things  sure.  He  knew  things  and  was  proud 
of  it.  He  knew  himself  and  other  men.  And  best  of 
all,  as  he  thought,  he  knew  women. 

Richard  Travis  was  secretary  and  treasurer  of  the 
Acme  Cotton  Mills. 

To-night  he  was  alone  in  the  old-fashioned  but  elegant 
dining-room  of  the  Gaffs.  The  big  log  fire  of  ash  and 
hickory  was  pleasant,  and  the  blaze,  falling  in  sombre 
color  on  the  old  mahogany  side-board  which  sat  opposite 
the  fireplace,  on  the  double  ash  floor,  polished  and 
shining,  added  a  deeper  and  richer  hue  to  it.  From  the 
toes  of  the  dragon  on  which  it  rested,  to  the  beak  of  the 
hand-carved  eagle,  spreading  his  wings  over  the  shield 
beneath  him,  carved  in  the  solid  mahogany  and  sur 
rounded  by  thirteen  stars,  all  was  elegance  and  aristoc 
racy.  Even  the  bold  staring  eyes  of  the  eagle  seemed 

IB 


RICHARD  TRAVIS  19 

proud  of  the  age  of  the  sideboard,  for  had  it  not  been 
built  when  the  stars  numbered  but  thirteen?  And  was 
not  the  eagle  rampant  then? 

The  big  brass  andirons  were  mounted  with  the 
bronzed  heads  of  wood-nymphs,  and  these  looked  saucily 
up  at  the  eagle.  The  three-cornered  cupboard,  in  one 
corner  of  the  room,  was  of  cherry,  with  small  diamond- 
shaped  windows  in  front,  showing  within  rare  old  sets 
of  china  and  cut  glass.  The  handsome  square  dining 
table  matched  the  side-board,  only  its  dragon  feet  were 
larger  and  stronger,  as  if  intended  to  stand  up  under 
more  weight,  at  times. 

Everything  was  ancient  and  had  a  pedigree.  Even 
the  Llewellyn  setter  was  old,  for  he  was  grizzled  around 
the  muzzle  and  had  deep-set,  lusterless  eyes,  from  which 
the  firelight,  as  if  afraid  of  their  very  uncanniness, 
darted  out  as  soon  as  it  entered.  And  he  carried  his 
head  to  one  side  when  he  walked,  as  old  and  deaf  dogs  do. 

He  lay  on  a  rug  before  the  fire.  He  had  won  this 
license,  for  opposite  his  name  on  the  kennel  books  were 
more  field-trials  won  than  by  any  other  dog  in  Alabama. 
And  now  he  dozed  and  dreamed  of  them  again,  with 
many  twitchings  of  feet,  and  cocked,  quivering  ears, 
and  rigid  tail,  as  if  once  more  frozen  to  the  covey  in 
the  tall  sedge-grass  of  the  old  field,  with  the  smell  of 
frost-bitten  Lespedeza,  wet  with  dew,  beneath  his  feet. 

Travis  stooped  and  petted  the  old  dog.  It  was  the 
one  thing  of  his  household  he  loved  most. 

"  Man  or  dog  —  'tis  all  the  same,"  he  mused  as  he 
watched  the  dreaming  dog  — "  it  is  old  age's  privilege 
to  dream  of  what  has  been  done  —  it  is  youth's  to  do." 


20  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

He  stretched  himself  in  his  big  mahogany  chair  and 
glanced  down  his  muscular  limbs,  and  drew  his  arms  to 
gether  with  a  snap  of  quick  strength. 

Everything  at  The  Gaffs  was  an  open  diary  of  the 
master's  life.  It  is  so  in  all  homes  —  that  which  we 
gather  around  us,  from  our  books  to  our  bed-clothes, 
is  what  we  are. 

And  so  the  setter  on  the  rug  meant  that  Richard 
Travis  was  the  best  wing-shot  in  the  Tennessee  Valley, 
and  that  his  kennel  of  Gladstone  setters  had  won  more 
field  trials  than  any  other  kennel  in  the  South.  No  man 
has  really  hunted  who  has  never  shot  quail  in  Alabama 
over  a  well-broken  setter.  All  other  hunting  is  butchery 
compared  to  the  scientific  sweetness  of  this  sport. 

There  was  a  goodnight,  martial,  daring  crow,  ring 
ing  from  the  Hoss-apple  tree  at  the  dining-room  window. 
Travis  smiled  and  called  out: 

"  Lights  waked  you  up,  eh,  Dick?  You're  a  gay 
Lothario  —  go  back  to  sleep." 

Richard  Travis  had  the  original  stock  —  the  Irish 
Greys  —  which  his  doughty  old  grandsire,  General 
Jeremiah  Travis,  developed  to  championship  honors, 
and  in  a  memorable  main  with  his  friend,  General 
Andrew  Jackson,  ten  years  after  the  New  Orleans  cam 
paign,  he  had  cleared  up  the  Tennesseans,  cock  and 
pocket.  It  was  a  big  main  in  which  Tennessee,  Georgia 
and  Alabama  were  pitted  against  each  other,  and  in 
which  the  Travis  cocks  of  the  Emerald  Isle  strain,  as 
Old  Hickory  expressed  it,  "  stood  the  steel  like  a  stuck 
she-b'ar,  fightin'  for  her  cubs." 

General  Travis  had  been  an  expert  at  heeling  a  cock ; 


RICHARD  TRAVIS  21 

and  it  is  said  that  his  skill  on  that  occasion  was  worth 
more  than  the  blood  of  his  Greys;  for  by  a  peculiar 
turn  of  the  gaffs,^—  so  slight  as  to  escape  the  notice  of 
any  but  an  expert  —  his  champion  cock  had  struck  the 
blow  which  ended  the  battle.  With  the  money  won,  he 
had  added  four  thousand  acres  to  his  estate,  and  after 
wards  called  it  The  Gaffs. 

And  a  strong,  brave  man  had  been  General  Jeremiah 
Travis, —  pioneer,  Indian  fighter,  Colonel  in  the  Creek 
war  and  at  New  Orleans,  and  a  General  in  the  war  with 
Mexico. 

His  love  for  the  Union  had  been  that  of  a  brave  man 
who  had  gone  through  battles  and  shed  his  blood  for  his 
country. 

The  Civil  War  broke  his  heart. 

In  his  early  days  his  heart  had  been  in  his  thorough 
bred  horses  and  his  fighting  cocks,  and  when  he  heard 
that  his  nephew  had  died  with  Crockett  and  Bowie  at  the 
Alamo,  he  drew  himself  proudly  up  and  said :  "  A  right 
brave  boy,  by  the  Eternal,  and  he  died  as  becomes  one 
crossed  on  an  Irish  Grey  cock." 

That  had  been  years  before.  Now,  a  new  civilization 
had  come  on  the  stage,  and  where  the  grandsire  had 
taken  to  thoroughbreds,  Richard  Travis,  the  grandson, 
took  to  trotters.  In  the  stalls  where  once  stood  the  sons 
of  Sir  Archie,  Boston,  and  imported  Glencoe  himself, 
now  were  sons  of  Mambrino  Patchin,  and  George  Wilkes 
and  Harold.  And  a  splendid  lot  they  were  —  sires, — 
brood  mares  and  colts,  in  the  paddocks  of  The  Gaffs. 

Travis  took  no  man's  dust  in  the  Tennessee  Valley. 
At  county  fairs  he  had  a  walk-over. 


22  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

He  had  inherited  The  Gaffs  from  his  grandfather, 
for  both  his  parents  died  in  his  infancy,  and  his  two 
remaining  uncles  gave  their  lives  in  Virginia,  early  in 
the  war,  following  the  flag  of  the  Confederacy. 

One  of  them  had  left  a  son,  whom  Richard  Travis 
had  educated  and  who  had,  but  the  June  before,  gradu 
ated  from  the  State  University. 

Travis  saw  but  little  of  him,  since  each  did  as  he 
pleased,  and  it  did  not  please  either  of  them  to  get  into 
each  other's  way. 

There  had  been  no  sympathy  between  them.  There 
could  not  be,  for  they  were  too  much  alike  in  many  ways. 

There  can  be  no  sympathy  in  selfishness. 

All  through  the  summer  Harry  Travis  had  spent  his 
time  at  picnics  and  dances,  and,  but  for  the  fact  that 
his  cousin  now  and  then  missed  one  of  his  best  horses 
from  the  stable,  or  found  his  favorite  gun  put  away 
foul,  or  his  fishing  tackle  broken,  he  would  not  have 
known  that  Harry  was  on  the  place. 

Cook-mother  Charity  kept  the  house.  Bond  and  free, 
she  had  spent  all  her  life  at  The  Gaffs.  Of  this  she  was 
prouder  than  to  have  been  house-keeper  at  Windsor. 
Her  word  was  law ;  she  was  the  only  mortal  who  bossed, 
as  she  called  it,  Richard  Travis. 

Usually,  friends  from  town  kept  the  owner  company, 
and  The  Gaffs'  reputation  for  hospitality,  while  gener 
ous,  was  not  unnoted  for  its  hilarity. 

To-night  Richard  Travis  was  lonely.  His  supper 
tray  had  not  been  removed.  He  lit  a  cigar  and  picked 
up  a  book  —  it  was  Herbert  Spencer,  and  he  was  soon 
interested. 


RICHARD  TRAVIS 

/     • 

Ten  minutes  later  an  octoroon  house-girl,  ^ 
Creole  eyes,  and  bright  ribbons  in  her  hair,  came  in  to 
remove  the  supper  dishes.  She  wore  a  bright-colored 
green  gown,  cut  low.  As  she  reached  over  the  table  near 
him  he  winced  at  the  strong  smell  of  musk,  which 
beauties  of  her  race  imagine  adds  so  greatly  to  their 
esthetic  status-quo.  She  came  nearer  to  him  than  was 
necessary,  and  there  was  an  attempted  familiarity  in 
the  movement  that  caused  him  to  curve  slightly  the  cor 
ner  of  his  thin,  nervous  lip,  showing  beneath  his  mus 
tache.  She  kept  a  half  glance  on  him  always.  He 
smoked  and  read  on,  until  the  rank  smell  of  her  perfume 
smote  him  again  through  the  odor  of  his  cigar,  and  as 
he  looked  up  she  had  busied  around  so  close  to  him  that 
her  exposed  neck  was  within  two  feet  of  him  bent  in 
seeming  innocence  over  the  tray.  With  a  mischievous 
laugh  he  reached  over  and  flipped  the  hot  ashes  from  his 
cigar  upon  her  neck.  She  screamed  affectedly  and 
danced  about  shaking  off  the  ashes.  Then  with  feigned 
maidenly  piquancy  and  many  reproachful  glances,  she 
went  out  laughing  good  humoredly. 

He  was  good  natured,  and  when  she  was  gone  he 
laughed  boyishly. 

Good  nature  is  one  of  the  virtues  of  impurity. 

Still  giggling  she  set  the  tray  down  in  the  kitchen 
and  told  Cook-mother  Charity  about  it.  That  worthy 
woman  gave  her  a  warning  look  and  said: 

"  The  frisk'ness  of  this  new  gen'ration  of  niggers 
makes  me  tired.  Better  let  Marse  Dick  alone  —  he's  a 
dan'g'us  man  with  women." 

In  the  dining-room  Travis  sat  quiet  and  thoughtful. 


24  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

He  was  a  handsome  man,  turning  forty.  His  face  was 
strong,  clean  shaved,  except  a  light  mustache,  with  full 
sensual  lips  and  an  unusually  fine  brow.  It  was  the 
brow  of  intellect  —  all  in  front.  Behind  and  above 
there  was  no  loftiness  of  ideality  or  of  veneration.  His 
smile  was  constant,  and  though  slightly  cold,  was  al 
ways  approachable.  His  manner  was  decisive,  but  clever 
always,  and  kind-hearted  at  times. 

Contrary  to  his  habit,  he  grew  reminiscent.  He 
despised  this  kind  of  a  mood,  because,  as  he  said,  "  It  is 
the  weakness  of  a  fool  to  think  about  himself."  He 
walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out  on  the  broad  fields 
of  The  Gaffs  in  the  valley  before  him.  He  looked  at  the 
handsomely  furnished  room  and  thought  of  the  splendid 
old  home.  Then  he  deliberately  surveyed  himself  in  the 
mirror.  He  smiled: 

"  '  Survival  of  the  fittest ' —  yes,  Spencer  is  right  — 
a  great  —  great  mind.  He  is  living  now,  and  the  world, 
of  course,  will  not  admit  his  greatness  until  he  is  dead. 
Life,  like  the  bull  that  would  rule  the  herd,  is  never 
ready  to  admit  that  other  life  is  great.  A  poet  is  al 
ways  a  dead  rhymester, —  a  philosopher,  a  dead  dreamer. 

"  Let  Spencer  but  die ! 

"  Tush !  Why  indulge  in  weak  modesty  and  fool  self- 
depreciation  ?  Even  instinct  tells  me  —  that  very  low 
est  of  animal  intellectual  forces  —  that  I  survive  because 
I  am  stronger  than  the  dead.  Providence  —  God  — 
whatever  it  is,  has  nothing  to  do  with  it  except  to  start 
you  and  let  you  survive  by  overcoming.  Winds  you  up 
and  then  —  devil  take  the  hindmost ! 

"  It  is  brains brains  —  brains  that  count  —  brains 


RICHARD  TRAYIS  25 

first  and  always.  This  moral  stuff  is  fit  only  for  those 
who  are  too  weak  to  conquer.  I  have  accomplished 
everything  in  life  I  have  ever  undertaken  —  everything 

—  and  —  by  brains !     Not  once  have  I  failed  —  I  have 
done  it  by  intellect,  courage  —  intuition  —  the  thing  in 
one  that  speaks. 

"  Now  as  to  things  of  the  heart," —  he  stopped  sud 
denly  —  he  even  scowled  half  humorously.  It  came 
over  him  —  his  failure  there,  as  one  who,  sweeping  with 
his  knights  the  pawns  of  an  opponent,  suddenly  finds 
himself  confronting  a  queen  —  and  checkmated. 

He  walked  to  the  window  again  and  looked  toward 
the  northern  end  of  the  valley.  There  the  gables  of  an 
o.ld  and  somewhat  weather-beaten  home  sat  in  a  group 
of  beech  on  a  rise  among  the  foot-hills. 

"  Westmoreland  " —  he  said  — "  how  dilapidated  it  is 

getting  to  be !     Something  must  be  done  there,  and  Alice 

—  Alice," —  he  repeated  the  name  softly  —  reverently 

— "  I  feel  —  I  know  it  —  she  —  even  she  shall  be  mine 

—  after  all  these  years  —  she  shall  come  to  me  yet." 

He  smiled  again :  "  Then  I  shall  have  won  all  around. 
Fate?  Destiny?  Tush!  It's  living  and  surviving 
weaker  things,  such  for  instance  as  my  cousin  Tom." 

He  smiled  satisfactorily.  He  flecked  some  cotton  lint 
from  his  coat  sleeve. 

"  I  have  had  a  hard  time  in  the  mill  to-day.  It's  a 
beastly  business  robbing  the  poor  little  half-made-up 
devils." 

He  rang  for  Aunt  Charity.  She  knew  what  he 
wished,  and  soon  came  in  bringing  him  his  cock-tail  — 
his  night-cap  as  she  always  called  it, —  only  of  late  he 


26  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

had  required  several  in  an  evening, —  a  thing  that  set 
the  old  woman  to  quarreling  with  him,  for  she  knew  the 
limit  of  a  gentleman.  And,  in  truth,  she  was  proud  of 
her  cock-tails.  They  were  made  from  a  recipe  given  by 
Andrew  Jackson.  For  fifty  years  Cook-mother  Charity 
had  made  one  every  night  and  brought  it  to  "  old  mars- 
ter  "  before  he  retired.  Now  she  proudly  brought  it  to 
his  grandson. 

"  Oh,  say  Mammy,"  he  said  as  the  old  woman  started 
out  — "  Carpenter  will  be  here  directly  with  his  report. 
Bring  another  pair  of  these  in  —  we  will  want  them." 

The  old  woman  bristled  up.  "  To  be  sure,  I'll  fix 
'em,  honey.  He'll  not  know  the  difference.  But  the 
licker  he  gits  in  his'n  will  come  outen  the  bottle  we  keep 
for  the  hosses  when  they  have  the  colic.  The  bran'  we 
keep  for  gem'men  would  stick  in  his  th'oat." 

Travis  laughed:  "Well  —  be  sure  you  don't  get 
that  horse  brand  in  mine." 


CHAPTER  III. 

JUD  CARPENTER. 

AN   hour   afterwards,   Travis   heard   a   well-known 
walk  in  the  hall  and  opened  the  door. 

He  stepped  back  astonished.     He  released  the 
knob  and  gazed  half  angry,  half  smiling. 

A  large  dog,  brindled  and  lean,  walked  complacently 
and  condescendingly  in,  followed  by  his  master.  At  a 
glance,  the  least  imaginative  could  see  that  Jud  Car 
penter,  the  Whipper-in  of  the  Acme  Cotton  Mills,  and 
Bonaparte,  his  dog,  were  well  mated. 

The  man  was  large,  raw-boned  and  brindled,  and  he, 
also,  walked  in,  complacently  and  condescendingly. 

The  dog's  ears  had  been  cropped  to  match  his  tail, 
which  in  his  infancy  had  been  reduced  to  a  very  few 
inches.  His  under  jaw  protruded  slightly  —  showing 
the  trace  of  bull  in  his  make-up. 

That  was  the  man  all  over.  Besides  he  had  a  small, 
mean,  roguish  ear. 

The  dog  was  cross-eyed  — "  the  only  cross-eyed  purp 
in  the  worl'  " —  as  his  master  had  often  proudly  pro 
claimed,  and  the  expression  of  his  face  was  uncanny. 

Jud  Carpenter's  eastern-eye  looked  west,  and  his  west 
ern-eye  looked  east,  and  the  rest  of  the  paragraph  above 
fitted  him  also. 

The  dog's   pedigree,   as   his  master  had   drawlingly 

27 


28  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

proclaimed,  was  "  p'yart  houn',  p'yart  bull,  p'yart  cur, 
p'yart  terrier,  an'  the  rest  of  him  —  wal,  jes'  dog." 

Reverse  this  and  it  will  be  Carpenter's:  Just  dog, 
with  a  sprinkling  of  bull,  cur,  terrier,  and  hound. 

Before  Richard  Travis  could  protest,  the  dog  walked 
deliberately  to  the  fire-place  and  sprang  savagely  on 
the  helpless  old  setter  dreaming  on  the  rug.  The 
older  dog  expostulated  with  terrific  howls,  while  Travis 
turned  quickly  and  kicked  off  the  intruder. 

He  stood  the  kicking  as  quietly  as  if  it  were  part  of 
the  programme  in  the  last  act  of  a  melodrama  in  which 
he  was  the  villain.  He  was  kicked  entirely  across  the 
room  and  his  head  was  driven  violently  into  the  half- 
open  door  of  the  side-board.  Here  it  came  in  contact 
with  one  of  Cook-mother's  freshly  baked  hams,  set  aside 
for  the  morrow's  lunch.  Without  even  a  change  of 
countenance  —  for,  in  truth,  it  could  not  change  — 
without  the  lifting  even  of  a  hair  in  surprise,  the  brute 
seized  the  ham  and  settled  right  where  he  was,  to  lunch. 
And  he  did  it  as  complacently  as  he  had  walked  in,  and 
with  a  satisfied  growl  which  seemed  to  say  that,  so  far 
as  the  villain  was  concerned,  the  last  act  of  the  melo 
drama  was  ending  to  his  entire  satisfaction. 

Opening  a  side  door,  Travis  seized  him  by  the  stump 
of  a  tail  and  one  hind  leg  —  knowing  his  mouth  was  too 
full  of  ham  to  bite  anything  —  and  threw  him,  still 
clutching  the  ham,  bodily  into  the  back  yard.  Without 
changing  the  attitude  he  found  himself  in  when  he  hit 
the  ground,  the  brindled  dog  went  on  with  his  luncheon. 

The  very  check  of  it  set  Travis  to  laughing.  He 
closed  the  door  and  said  to  the  man  who  had  followed 


JUD  CARPENTER  29 

the  dog  in :  "  Carpenter,  if  I  had  the  nerve  of  that 
raw-boned  fiend  that  follows  you  around,  I'd  soon  own 
the  world." 

The  man  had  already  taken  his  seat  by  the  fire  as  un 
affectedly  as  had  the  dog.  He  had  entered  as  boldly 
and  as  indifferently  and  his  two  deep-set,  cat-gray 
cross-eyes  looked  around  as  savagely. 

He  was  a  tall,  lank  fellow,  past  middle  age,  with  a 
crop  of  stiff,  red-brown  hair,  beginning  midway  of  his 
forehead,  so  near  to  an  equally  shaggy  and  heavy  splotch 
of  eye-brows  as  to  leave  scarce  a  finger's  breadth  be 
tween  them. 

He  was  wiry  and  shrewd-looking,  and  his  two  deep- 
set  eyes  seemed  always  like  a  leopard's, —  walking  the 
cage  of  his  face,  hunting  for  some  crack  to  slip  through. 
Furtive,  sly,  darting,  rolling  hither  and  thither,  never 
still,  comprehensive,  all-seeing,  malicious  and  deadly 
shrewd.  These  were  the  eyes  of  Jud  Carpenter,  and 
they  told  it  all.  To  this,  add  again  that  they  looked 
in  contrary  directions. 

As  a  man's  eye,  so  is  the  tenor  of  his  life. 

Yet  in  them,  now  and  then,  the  twinkle  of  humor 
shone.  He  had  a  conciliatory  way  with  those  beneath 
him,  and  he  considered  all  the  mill  hands  in  that  class. 
To  his  superiors  he  was  a  frowning,  yet  daring  and  even 
presumptuous  underling. 

Somewhat  better  dressed  than  the  Hillites  from  whom 
he  sprang  was  this  Whipper-in  of  the  Acme  Cotton 
Mills  —  somewhat  better  dressed,  and  with  the  air  of 
one  who  had  arisen  above  his  surroundings.  Yet,  with 
al,  the  common,  low-born,  malicious  instinct  was  there 


30  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

—  the  instinct  which  makes  one  of  them  hate  the  man 
who  is  better  educated,  better  dressed  than  he.  All  told, 
it  might  be  summed  up  and  said  of  Jud  Carpenter  that 
he  had  all  the  instincts  of  a  Hillite  and  all  the  arrogance 
of  a  manager. 

"  Nobody  understands  that  dog,  Bonaparte,  but  me," 
said  Carpenter  after  a  while  —  "  he's  to  dogs  what  his 
name-sake  was  to  man.  He's  the  champ'un  fighter  of 
the  Tennessee  Valley,  an'  the  only  cross-eyed  purp  in  the 
worl',  as  I  have  often  said.  Like  all  gen'uses  of  course, 
he's  a  leetle  peculiar  —  but  him  and  me  —  we  undcr- 
stan's  each  other." 

He  pulled  out  some  mill  papers  and  was  about  to 
proceed  to  discuss  his  business  when  Travis  interrupted : 

"  Hold  on,"  he  said,  good  humoredly,  "  after  my  ex 
perience  with  that  cross-eyed  genius  of  a  dog,  I'll  need 
something  to  brace  me  up." 

He  handed  Carpenter  a  glass  and  each  drank  off  his 
cock-tail  at  a  quaff. 

Travis  settled  quickly  to  business.  He  took  out  his 
mill  books,  and  for  an  hour  the  two  talked  in  a  low  tone 
and  mechanically.  The  commissary  department  of  the 
mill  was  taken  up  and  the  entire  accounts  gone  over. 
Memoranda  were  made  of  goods  to  be  ordered.  The 
accounts  of  families  were  run  over  and  inspected.  It 
was  tedious  work,  but  Travis  never  flagged  and  his  ex 
ecutive  ability  was  quick  and  incisive.  At  last  he  closed 
the  book  with  an  impatient  gesture: 

"  That's  all  I'll  do  to-night,"  he  muttered  decisively. 
"  I've  other  things  to  talk  to  you  about.  But  we'll 
need  something  first." 


JUD  CARPENTER  31 

He  went  to  the  side-board  and  brought  out  a  decan 
ter  of  whiskey,  two  goblets  and  a  bowl  of  loaf  sugar. 

He  laughed :  "  Mammy  knows  nothing  about  this. 
Two  cock-tails  are  the  limit  she  sets  for  me,  and  so  I 
keep  this  private  bottle." 

He  made  a  long-toddy  for  himself,  but  Carpenter 
took  his  straight.  In  all  of  it,  his  furtive  eyes,  shining 
out  of  the  splotch  of  eye-brows  above,  glanced  inquiring 
ly  around  and  obsequiously  followed  every  movement  of 
his  superior. 

"  Now,  Carpenter,"  said  the  Secretary  after  he  had 
settled  vack  in  his  chair  and  lit  a  cigar,  handing  the  box 
afterwards  to  the  other  — "  You  know  me  —  you  and  I 
—  must  understand  each  other  in  all  things." 

"  'Bleeged  to  be  that  way,"  drawled  the  Whipper-in 
— "  we  must  wu'ck  together.  You  know  me,  an'  that 
Jud  Carpenter's  motto  is,  '  mum,  an'  keep  movinV 
That's  me  —  that's  Jud  Carpenter." 

Travis  laughed :  "  O,  it's  nothing  that  requires  so 
much  heavy  villain  work  as  the  tone  of  your  voice  would, 
suggest.  We're  not  in  a  melodrama.  This  is  the  nine 
teenth  century  and  we're  talking  business  and  going  to 
win  a  thing  or  two  by  common  sense  and  business  ways, 
eh?" 

Carpenter  nodded. 

"Well,  now,  the  first  is  quite  matter  of  fact  —  just 
horses.  I  believe  we  are  going  to  have  the  biggest  fair 
this  fall  we  have  ever  had." 

"  It's  lots  talked  about,"  said  Carpenter  — "  'special 
ly  the  big  race  an'  purse  you've  got  put  up." 


32  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Travis  grew  interested  quickly  and  leaned  over  ex 
citedly. 

"  My  reputation  is  at  stake  —  and  that  of  The  Gaffs' 
stable.  You  see,  Carpenter,  it's  a  three-cornered  race 
for  three-thousand  dollars  —  each  of  us,  Col.  Troup, 
Flecker  and  me,  have  put  up  a  thousand  —  three  heats 
out  of  five  —  the  winner  takes  the  stake.  Col.  Troup, 
of  Lenox,  has  entered  a  fast  mare  of  his,  and  Flecker, 
of  Tennessee,  will  be  there  with  his  gelding.  I  know 
Flecker's  horse.  I  could  beat  him  with  Lizette  and  one 
of  her  legs  tied  up.  I  looked  him  over  last  week.  Con 
tracted  heels  and  his  owner  hasn't  got  horse-sense  to 
know  it.  It's  horse-sense,  Carpenter,  that  counts  for 
success  in  life  as  in  a  race." 

Carpenter  nodded  again. 

"  But  it's  different  with  Col.  Troup's  entry.  Ever 
been  to  Lenox  ?  "  he  asked  suddenly. 

Carpenter  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  know  anybody  there?"  asked  Travis.  "I 
thought  so  —  just  what  I  want." 

He  went  on  indifferently,  but  Carpenter  saw  that  he 
was  measuring  his  words  and  noting  their  effect  upon 
himself.  "  They  work  out  over  there  Tuesdays  and 
Fridays  —  the  fair  is  only  a  few  weeks  off  —  they  will 
be  stepping  their  best  by  Friday.  Now,  go  there 
and  say  nothing  —  but  just  sit  around  and  see  how  fast 
Col.  Troup's  mare  can  trot." 

"  That'll  be  easy,"  said  Carpenter. 

"  I  have  no  notion  of  losing  my  thousand  and  reputa 
tion,  too."  He  bent  over  to  Carpenter  and  laughed. 
"  All's  fair  in  love  and  —  a  horse  race.  You  know  it's 


JUD  CARPENTER  33 

the  2:25  class,  and  I've  entered  Lizette,  but  Sadie  B.  is 
so  much  like  her  that  no  living  man  who  doesn't  curry 
them  every  day  could  tell  them  apart.  Sadie  B.'s  mark 
is  2:15.  Now  see  if  Troup  can  beat  2:25.  Maybe  he 
can't  beat  2:15." 

Then  he  laughed  ironically. 

Carpenter  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

It  was  all  he  said,  but  it  was  enough  for  Carpenter. 
Fraud's  wink  to  the  fraudulent  is  an  open  book.  Her 
nod  is  the  nod  of  the  Painted  Thing  passing  down  the 
highway. 

Base-born  that  he  was  —  low  by  instinct  and  inherit 
ance,  he  had  never  heard  of  so  brilliant  and  so  gentle 
manly  a  piece  of  fraud.  The  consummate  boldness  of  it 
made  Carpenter's  eyes  twinkle  —  a  gentleman  and  in  a 
race  with  gentlemen  —  who  would  dare  to  suspect  ?  It 
was  the  boldness  of  a  fine  woman,  daring  to  wear  a 
necklace  of  paste-diamonds. 

He  sat  looking  at  Travis  in  silent  admiration.  Never 
before  had  his  employer  risen  to  such  heights  in  the  eyes 
of  the  Whipper-in.  He  sat  back  in  his  chair  and 
chuckled.  His  furtive  eyes  danced. 

"  Nobody  but  a  born  gen'us  'ud  ever  have  tho'rt  of 
that,"  he  said  — "  never  seed  yo'  e'kal  —  why,  the  money 
is  your'n,  any  way  you  fix  it.  You  can  ring  in  Lizette 
one  heat  and  Sadie  B." 

"  There  are  things  to  be  thought  and  not  talked  of," 
replied  Travis  quickly.  "  For  a  man  of  your  age  ar'n't 
you  learning  to  talk  too  much  out  loud?  You  go  and 
find  out  what  I've  asked  —  I'll  do  the  rest.  Fm  think- 


&4          THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

ing  I'll  not  need  Sadie  B.  Never  run  a  risk,  even  a 
dead  sure  one,  till  you're  obliged  to." 

"  I'll  fetch  it  next  week  —  trust  me  for  that.  But 
I  hope  you  will  do  it  —  ring  in  Sadie  B.  just  for  the  fun 
of  it.  Think  of  old  bay-window  Troup  trottin'  his 
mare  to  death  ag'in  two  fast  horses  an'  never  havin' 
sense  enough  to  see  it." 

He  looked  his  employer  over  —  from  his  neatly  turned 
foot  to  the  cravat,  tied  in  an  up-to-date  knot.  At  that, 
even,  Travis  flushed.  "  Here,"  he  said  — "  another 
toddy.  I'll  trust  you  to  bring  in  your  report  all  right." 

Carpenter  again  took  his  straight  —  his  eyes  had  be 
gun  to  glitter,  his  face  to  flush,  and  he  felt  more  like 
talking. 

Travis  lit  another  cigar.  He  puffed  and  smoked  in 
silence  for  a  while.  The  rings  of  smoke  went  up  incess 
antly.  His  face  had  begun  to  redden,  his  fingers  to 
thrill  to  the  tip  with  pulsing  blood.  With  it  went  his 
final  contingency  of  reserve,  and  under  it  he  dropped 
to  the  level  of  the  base-born  at  his  side. 

Whiskey  is  the  great  leveler  of  life.  Drinking  it, 
all  men  are,  indeed,  equal. 

"  When  are  you  going  out  to  get  in  more  hands  for 
the  mill?"  asked  Travis  after  a  pause. 

"  To-morrow  —  " 

"  So  soon  ?  "  asked  Travis. 

"  Yes,  you  see,"  said  Carpenter,  "  there's  been  ha'f  a 
dozen  of  the  brats  died  this  summer  an'  fall  —  scarlet 
fever  in  the  mill." 

Travis  looked  at  him  and  smiled. 

"An'  I've  got  to  git  in  some  mo'  right  away,"  he 


JUD  CARPENTER  &5 

went  OH.     "  Oh,  there's  plenty  of  'em  in  these  hills." 

Travis  smoked  for  a  few  minutes  without  speaking. 

"  Carpenter,  had  you  ever  thought  of  Helen  Conway 
—  I  mean  —  of  getting  Conway's  two  daughters  into 
the  mill  ?  "  He  made  the  correction  with  a  feigned  in 
difference,  but  the  other  quickly  noticed  it.  In  an  in 
stant  Carpenter  knew. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  Whipper-in  had  not  thought 
of  it,  but  it  was  easy  for  him  to  say  what  he  thought 
the  other  wished  him  to  say. 

"  Wai,  yes,"  he  replied;  "  that's  jes'  what  I  had  been 
thinkin*  of.  They've  got  to  come  in  -  -  'ristocrats  or 
no  'ristocrats!  When  it  comes  to  a  question  of  bread 
and  meat,  pedigree  must  go  to  the  cellar." 

"  To  the  attic,  you  mean,"  said  Travis — "where  their 
old  clothes  are." 

Carpenter  laughed :    "  That's  it — you  all'ers  say  the 
k'rect  thing.      'N'   as   I  was  savin'  "  —  he  went  on  - 
"  it  is  a  ground-hog  case  with  'em.      The  Major's  drunk 
all  the  time.     His  farm  an'  home  '11  be  sold  soon.     He's 
'bleeged  to  put  'em  in  the  mill  —  or  the  po'-house." 

He  paused,  thinking.  Then,  "  But  ain't  that  Helen 
about  the  pretties'  thing  you  ever  seed  ?  "  He  chuckled. 
"You're  sly  —  but  I  seen  you  givin'  her  that  airin' 
behin'  Lizette  and  Sadie  B. —  " 

"  You've  nothing  to  do  with  that,"  said  Travis 
gruffly.  "  You  want  a  new  girl  for  our  drawing-in 
machine  —  the  best  paying  and  most  profitable  place 
in  the  mill  —  off  from  the  others  —  in  a  room  by  her 
self  —  no  contact  with  mill-people  —  easy  job  —  two 
dollars  a  day  —  " 


36  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  One  dollar  —  you  f  orgit,  suh  —  one  dollar's  the 
reg'lar  price,  sah,"  interrupted  the  Whipper-in. 

The  other  turned  on  him  almost  fiercely :  "  Your 
memory  is  as  weak  as  your  wits  —  two  dollars,  I  tell 
you,  and  don't  interrupt  me  again  — 

"  To  be  sho',"  said  the  Whipper-in,  meekly  — "  I 
did  f  orgit  —  please  excuse  me,  sah." 

"  Then,  in  talking  to  Conway,  you,  of  course,  would 
draw  his  attention  to  the  fact  that  he  is  to  have  a  nice 
cottage  free  of  rent  —  that  will  come  in  right  handy 
when  he  finds  himself  out  in  the  road  —  sold  out  and 
nowhere  to  go,"  he  said. 

"  'N'  the  commissary,"  put  in  Carpenter  quietly. 
"  Excuse  me,  sah,  but  there's  a  mighty  good  bran'  of 
whiskey  there,  you  know !  " 

Travis  smiled  good  humoredly :  "  Your  wits  are  re 
turning,"  he  said ;  "  I  think  you  understand." 

"  I'll  see  him  to-morrow,"  said  Carpenter,  rising  to 
go. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  in  a  hurry,"  said  Travis. 

"  Excuse  me,  sah,  but  I'm  afraid  I've  bored  you 
stayin'  too  long." 

"  Sit  down,"  said  the  other,  peremptorily  — "  you 
will  need  something  to  help  you  along  the  road.  Shall 
we  take  another?  " 

So  they  took  yet  another  drink,  and  Carpenter  went 
out,  calling  his  dog. 

Travis  stood  in  the  doorway  and  watched  them  go 
down  the  driveway.  They  both  staggered  lazily  along. 
Travis  smiled :  "  Both  drunk  —  the  dog  on  ham." 


JUD  CARPENTER  87 

As  he  turned  to  go  in,  he  reeled  slightly  himself,  but 
he  did  not  notice  it. 

When  he  came  back  he  was  restless.  He  looked  at 
the  clock.  "  Too  early  for  bed,"  he  said.  "  I'd  give 
a  ten  if  Charley  Biggers  were  here  with  his  little  cock 
tail  laugh  to  try  me  a  game  of  poker." 

Suddenly  he  went  to  the  window,  and  taking  a  small 
silver  whistle  from  his  pocket  he  blew  it  toward  the 
stables.  Soon  afterwards  a  well  dressed  mulatto  boy 
entered. 

"  How  are  the  horses  to-night,  Jim  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Fine,  sir  —  all  eatin'  well  an'  f eelin'  good." 

"  And  Coquette  —  the  saddle  mare  ?  " 

"  Like  split  silk,  sir." 

"  Exercise  her  to-morrow  under  the  saddle,  and  Sun 
day  afternoon  we  will  give  Miss  Alice  her  first  ride  on 
her  —  she's  to  be  a  present  for  her  on  her  birthday, 
you  know — eh  ?  " 

Jim  bowed  and  started  out. 

"  You  may  fix  my  bath  now  —  think  I'll  retire.  O 
Jim !  "  he  called,  "  see  that  Antar,  the  stallion,  is  se 
curely  stalled.  You  know  how  dangerous  he  is." 

He  was  just  dozing  off  when  the  front  door  closed 
with  a  bang. 

Then  a  metal  whip  handle  thumped  heavily  on  the 
floor  and  the  jingling  of  a  spur  rattled  over  the  hall 
floor,  as  Harry  Travis  boisterously  went  down  the  hall, 
singing  tipsily, 

"  Oh,   Johnny,  my  dear, 

Just  think  of  your  head, 


38  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Just  think  of  your  head 
In  the  morning." 

Another  door  banged  so  loudly  it  awakened  even  the 
setter.  The  old  dog  came  to  the  side  of  the  bed  and 
laid  his  head  affectionately  in  Travis'  palm.  The  mas 
ter  of  The  Gaffs  stroked  his  head,  saying :  "  It  is 
strange  that  I  love  this  old  dog  so." 


CHAPTER  IV 

FOOD    FOR    THE    FACTORY 

rE  next  morning  being  Saturday,  Carpenter,  the 
Whipper-in,  mounted  his  Texas  pony  and  started 
out  toward  the  foothills  of  the  mountains. 

Upon  the  pommel  of  his  saddle  lay  a  long  single-bar 
reled  squirrel  guri,  for  the  hills  were  full  of  squirrels, 
and  Jud  was  fond  of  a  tender  one,  now  and  then.  Be 
hind  him,  as  usual,  trotted  Bonaparte,  his  sullen  eyes 
looking  for  an  opportunity  to  jump  on  any  timid  coun 
try  dog  which  happened  along. 

There  are  two  things  for  which  all  mills  must  be 
prepared  —  the  wear  and  tear  of  Time  on  the  machin 
ery  —  the  wear  and  tear  of  Death  on  the  frail  things 
who  yearly  work  out  their  lives  before  it. 

In  the  fight  for  life  between  the  machine  and  the 
human  labor,  in  the  race  of  life  for  that  which  men  call 
success,  who  cares  for  the  life  of  one  little  mill  hand? 
And  what  is  one  tot  of  them  from  another?  And  if 
one  die  one  month  and  another  the  next,  and  another  the 
next  and  the  next,  year  in  and  year  out,  who  remembers 
it  save  some  poverty-hardened,  stooped  and  benumbed 
creature,  surrounded  by  a  scrawny  brood  calling  ever 
for  bread? 

The  world  knows  not  —  cares  not  —  for  its  tiny  life 

30 


40  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

is  but  a  thread  in  the  warp  of  the  great  Drawing-in 
Machine. 

So  fearful  is  the  strain  upon  the  nerve  and  brain 
and  body  of  the  little  things,  that  every  year  many 
of  them  pass  away  —  slowly,  surely,  quietly  —  so  im 
perceptibly  that  the  mill  people  themselves  scarcely  miss 
them.  And  what  does  it  matter?  Are  there  not  hun 
dreds  of  others,  born  of  ignorance  and  poverty  and 
pair,  to  take  their  places? 

And  the  dead  ones  —  unknown,  they  simply  pass  into 
a  Greater  Unknown.  Their  places  are  filled  with  fresh 
victims  —  innocents,  whom  Passion  begets  with  a  caress 
and  Cupidity  buys  with  a  curse.  Children  they  are  — 
tots  —  and  why  should  they  know  that  they  are  trading 
—  life  for  death  ? 

It  was  a  bright  fall  morning,  and  Jud  Carpenter 
rode  toward  the  mountain  a  few  miles  away.  They  are 
scarcely  mountains  —  these  beautifully  wooded  hills  in 
the  Tennessee  Valley,  hooded  by  blue  in  the  day  and 
shrouded  in  somber  at  night;  but  it  pleases  the  people 
who  live  within  the  sweet  influence  of  their  shadows  to 
call  them  mountains. 

Jud  knew  where  he  was  going,  and  he  rode  leisurely 
along,  revolving  in  his  mind  the  plan  of  his  campaign. 
He  needed  the  recruits  for  the  Acme  Mills,  and  in  all 
his  past  experience  as  an  employment  agent  he  had 
never  undertaken  to  bring  in  a  family  where  as  much 
tact  and  diplomacy  was  required  as  in  this  case. 

It  was  a  dilapidated  gate  at  which  he  drew  rein. 
There  had  once  been  handsome  pillars  of  stone  and 
brick,  but  these  had  fallen  and  the  gate  had  been  swung 


FOOD  FOR  THE  FACTORY  41 

on  a  convenient  locust  tree  that  had  sprung  up  and 
grown  with  its  usual  rapidity  from  its  sheltered  nook 
near  the  crumbling  rock  wall.  Only  one  end  of  the 
gate  was  hung;  and  it  lay  diagonally  across  the  en 
trance  of  what  had  once  been  a  thousand  acres  of  the 
finest  farm  in  the  Tennessee  Valley. 

Dismounting,  Jud  hitched  his  horse  and  set  his  gun 
beside  the  tree;  and  as  it  was  easier  to  climb  over  the 
broken-down  fence  than  to  lift  the  gate  around,  he 
stepped  over  and  then  shuffled  along  in  his  lazy  way 
toward  the  house. 

It  was  an  old  farmhouse,  now  devoid  of  paint;  and 
the  path  to  it  had  once  been  a  well-kept  gravel  walk, 
lined  with  cedars;  but  the  box-plants,  having  felt  no 
pruning  shears  for  years,  almost  filled,  with  their  fan 
tastically  jagged  boughs,  the  narrow  path,  while  the 
cedars  tossed  about  their  broken  and  dead  limbs. 

The  tall,  square  pillars  in  the  house,  from  dado  above 
to  where  they  rested  in  the  brick  base  below,  showed  the 
naked  wood,  untouched  so  long  by  paint  that  it  had 
grown  furzy  from  rain  and  snow,  and  splintery  from 
sun  and  heat.  Its  green  shutters  hung,  some  of  them, 
on  one  hinge;  and  those  which  could  be  closed,  were 
shut  up  close  and  sombre  under  the  casements 

A  half  dozen  hounds  came  baying  and  barking 
around  him.  As  Jud  proceeded,  others  poured  out  from 
under  the  house.  All  were  ribby,  and  half  starved. 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  they  promptly  covered 
Bonaparte,  much  to  the  delight  of  that  genius.  Indeed, 
from  the  half-satisfied,  half  malignant  snarl  which  lit  up 
his  face  as  they  piled  rashly  and  brainlessly  on  him, 


48  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Jud  took  it  that  Bonaparte  had  trotted  all  these  miles 
just  to  breakfast  on  this  remnant  of  hound  on  the  half- 
shell. 

In  a  few  minutes  Bonaparte's  terrible,  flashing  teeth 
had  them  flying  in  every  direction. 

Jud  promptly  cuffed  him  back  to  the  gate  and  bade 
him  wait  there. 

On  the  front  portico,  his  chair  half -tilted  back,  his 
trousers  in  his  boot  legs,  and  his  feet  on  the  balustrade 
rim,  the  uprights  of  which  were  knocked  out  here  and 
there,  like  broken  teeth  in  a  comb, —  sat  a  man  in  a 
slouch  hat,  smoking  a  cob  pipe.  He  was  in  his  shirt 
sleeves.  His  face  was  flushed  and  red;  his  eyes  were 
watery,  bleared.  His  head  was  fine  and  long  —  his 
nose  and  chin  seemed  to  meet  in  a  sharp  point.  His 
face  showed  that  form  of  despair  so  common  in  those 
whom  whiskey  has  helped  to  degenerate.  He  did  not 
smile — he  scaled  continuously,  and  his  voice  had  been 
imprecatory  so  long  that  it  whined  in  the  same  falsetto 
twang  as  one  of  his  hounds. 

Jud  stepped  forward  and  bowed  obsequiously. 
"  How  are  you  to-day,  Majah,  sah?  "  he  asked  while 
his  puckered  and  wrinkled  face  tried  to  smile. 

Jud  was  chameleon.  Long  experience  had  taught 
him  to  drop  instinctively  into  the  mannerism  —  even 
the  dialect  —  of  those  he  hoped  to  cajole.  With  the 
well-bred  he  could  speak  glibly,  and  had  airs  himself. 
With  the  illiterate  and  the  low-bred,  he  could  out- 
Caliban  the  herd  of  them. 

The  man  did  not  take  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth. 
He  did  not  even  turn  his  head.  Only  his  two  bleared 


FOOD  FOR  THE  FACTORY  43 

eyes  shot  sidewise  down  to  the  ground,  where  ten  feet 
below  him  stood  the  employment  agent  of  the  mills, 
smiling,  smirking,  and  doing  his  best  to  spell  out  on 
the  signboard  of  his  unscrupulous  face  the  fact  that  he 
came  in  peace  and  good  will. 

Major  Edward  Conway  scarcely  grunted  —  it  might 
have  been  anything  from  an  oath  to  an  eructation. 
Then,  taking  his  pipe-stem  from  between  his  teeth,  and 
shifting  his  tobacco  in  his  mouth, —  for  he  was  both 
chewing  and  smoking  —  he  expectorated  squarely  into 
the  eyes  of  a  hound  which  had  followed  Jud  up  the 
steps,  barking  and  snarling  at  his  heels. 

He  was  a  good  marksman  even  with  spittle,  and  the 
dog  fled,  whining. 

Then  he  answered,  with  an  oath,  that  he  was  about 
as  well  as  the  rheumatism  and  the  beastly  weather  would 
permit. 

Jud  came  up  uninvited  and  sat  down.  The  Major 
did  not  even  turn  his  head.  The  last  of  a  long  line  of 
gentlemen  did  not  waste  his  manners  on  one  beneath 
him  socially. 

Jud  was  discreetly  silent,  and  soon  the  Major  began 
to  tell  all  of  his  troubles,  but  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
was  talking  to  his  servant  and  with  many  oaths  and 
much  bitterness : 

"  You  see  its  this  damned  rheumatism,  Carpenter. 
Las'  night,  suh,  I  had  to  drink  a  quart  of  whiskey  befo' 
I  cu'd  go  to  sleep  at  all.  It  came  on  me  soon  aftah 
I  come  out  of  the  wah,  an'  it  growed  on  me  like  jim'son 
weeds  in  a  hog-pen.  My  appetite's  quit  on  me  —  two 
pints  of  whiskey  an'  wild-cherry  bark  a  day,  suh,  don't 


44  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

seem  to  help  it  at  all,  suh.  I  cyant  tell  whut  the  devil's 
the  matter  with  my  stomach.  Nothin'  I  eat  or  drink 
seems  to  agree  with  me  but  whiskey.  If  I  drink  this 
malarial  water,  suh,  m'legs  an'  m'feet  begin  to  swell. 
I  have  to  go  back  to  whiskey.  Damn  me,  but  I  was  born 
for  Kentucky.  Why,  I've  got  a  forty  dollar  thirst  on 
me  this  very  minute.  I'm  so  dry  I  cu'd  kick  up  a  dust 
in  a  hog  wallow.  Maybe,  though,  it's  this  rotten  stuff 
that  cross-roads  Jew  is  sellin'  me  an'  callin'  it  whiskey. 
He's  got  a  mortgage  on  everything  here  but  the  houn's 
and  the  house  cat,  an'  he's  tryin'  to  see  if  he  cyant  kill 
me  with  his  bug- juice  an'  save  a  suit  in  Chancery. 
I'm  goin'  to  sen'  off  an'  see  if  I  cyant  git  another  bran' 
of  it,  suh." 

Edward  Conway  was  the  type  of  the  Southerner 
wrecked  financially  and  morally  by  the  war.  His  father 
and  grandfather  had  owned  Millwood,  and  the  present 
owner  had  gone  into  the  war  a  carefully  educated,  well 
reared  youth  of  twenty.  He  came  out  of  it  alive,  it  is 
true,  but,  like  many  another  fine  youth  of  both  North 
and  South,  addicted  to  drink. 

The  brutality  of  war  lies  not  alone  in  death  —  it  is 
often  more  fatal,  more  degenerating,  in  the  life  it  leaves 
behind. 

Coming  out  of  the  war,  Conway  found,  as  did  all 
others  in  the  Tennessee  Valley  who  sided  with  the 
South,  that  his  home  was  a  wreck.  Not  a  fence,  even, 
remained  —  nothing  but  the  old  home  —  shutterless, 
plasterless,  its  roof  rotten,  its  cellar  the  abode  of  hogs. 

Thousands  of  others  found  themselves  likewise  — 
brave  hearts  —  men  they  proved  themselves  to  be  —  in 


FOOD  FOR  THE  FACTORY  45 

that  they  built  up  their  homes  out  of  wreck  and  their 
country  out  of  chaos. 

The  man  who  retrieves  his  fortune  under  the  protect 
ing  arm  of  law  and  order  is  worthy  of  great  praise; 
but  he  who  does  it  in  the  surly,  snarling  teeth  of  Dis 
order  itself  is  worthy  of  still  greater  praise. 

And  the  real  soldier  is  not  he  with  his  battles  and  his 
bravery.  All  animals  will  fight  —  it  is  instinct.  But 
he  who  conquers  in  the  great  moral  battle  of  peace  and 
good  government,  overcoming  prejudice,  ignorance, 
poverty  and  even  injustice,  till  he  rises  to  the  height  of 
the  brave  whose  deeds  do  vindicate  them  —  this  is  the 
real  soldier. 

Thousands  of  Southern  soldiers  did  this,  but  Edward 
Con  way  had  not  been  one  of  them.  For  where  whiskey 
sits  he  holds  a  scepter  whose  staff  is  the  body  of  the 
Upas  tree,  and  there  is  no  room  for  the  oak  of  thrift  or 
the  wild-flower  of  sweetness  underneath. 

From  poverty  to  worse  poverty  Edward  Conway  had 
gone,  until  now,  hopelessly  mortgaged,  hopelessly  be 
sotted,  hopelessly  soured,  he  lived  the  diseased  product 
of  weakness,  developed  through  stimulated  inactivity. 

Nature  is  inexorable,  morally,  physically,  mentally, 
and  as  two  generations  of  atheists  will  beget  a  thief, 
so  will  two  generations  of  idle  rich  beget  nonentities. 

On  this  particular  morning  that  Jud  Carpenter  came, 
things  had  reached  a  crisis  with  Edward  Conway.  By 
a  decree  of  the  court,  the  last  hope  he  had  of  retain 
ing  a  portion  of  his  family  estate  had  been  swept  away, 
and  the  entire  estate  was  to  be  advertised  for  sale,  to 
satisfy  a  mortgage  and  judgment.  It  is  true,  he  had 


46  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

the  two  years  of  redemption  under  the  Alabama  law, 
but  can  a  drunkard  redeem  his  land  when  he  can  not 
redeem  himself? 

And  so,  partly  from  despair,  and  partly  from  that 
instinct  which  makes  even  the  most  sensitive  of  mortals 
wish  to  pour  their  secret  troubles  into  another's  ear, 
partly  even  from  drunken  recklessness,  Edward  Conway 
sat  on  his  verandah  this  morning  and  poured  his  troubles 
into  the  designing  ear  of  Jud  Carpenter.  The  refrain 
of  his  woe  was  that  luck  —  luck  —  remorseless  luck 
.was  against  him. 

Luck,  since  the  beginning  of  the  world,  has  been  the 
cry  of  him  who  gambles  with  destiny.  Work  is  the 
watchword  of  the  man  who  believes  in  himself. 

This  thing  went  because  that  man  had  been  against 
him,  and  this  went  because  of  the  faithlessness  of  an 
other.  His  health  —  well,  that  was  God's  doing. 

Jud  was  too  shrewd  to  let  him  know  that  he  thought 
whiskey  had  anything  to  do  with  it  —  and  so,  very 
cautiously  did  the  employment  agent  proceed. 

A  child  with  sunny  hair  and  bright  eyes  ran  across  the 
yard.  She  was  followed  by  an  old  black  mammy, 
whose  anxiety  for  fear  her  charge  might  get  her  clothes 
soiled  was  plainly  evident ;  from  the  parlor  came  the 
notes  of  an  old  piano,  sadly  out  of  tune,  and  Jud  could 
hear  the  fine  voice  of  another  daughter  singing  a  love 
ballad. 

"  You've  got  two  mighty  pyeart  gyrls  here,"  at  last 
he  ventured. 

"  Of  course,  they  are,  suh,"  snapped  their  father  — • 
"  they  are  Conways." 


FOOD  FOR  THE  FACTORY  47 

"  Ever  think  of  it,  sah,"  went  on  Jud,  "  that  they 
could  make  you  a  livin'  in  the  mill?  " 

Conway  was  silent.  In  truth,  he  had  thought  of 
that  very  thing.  To-day,  however,  he  was  nerved  and 
desperate,  being  more  besotted  than  usual. 

"  Now,  look  aheah  —  its  this  way,"  went  on  Jud  — 
"  you're  gettin'  along  in  age  and  you  need  res'.     You've 
been  wuckin'  too  hard.     I  tell  you,  Ma j all,  sah,  you're 
dead  game  —  no  other  man  I  know  of  would  have  stood 
up  under  the  burdens  you've  had  on  yo'  shoulders." 

The  Major  drew  himself  up:  "  That's  a  family  trait 
of  the  Conways,  suh." 

"  Wai,  it's  time  for  you  to  res'  awhile.  No  use  to 
drive  a  willin'  hoss  to  death.  I  can  get  a  place  for  both 
of  the  gyrls  in  the  mill,  an'  aftah  the  fust  month  — 
aftah  they  learn  the  job,  they  can  earn  enough  to  sup 
port  you  comf't'bly.  Now,  we'll  give  you  a  nice  little 
cottage  —  no  bother  of  keepin'  up  a  big  run-down 
place  like  this  —  jes'  a  neat  little  cottage.  Aunt 
Mariah  can  keep  it  in  nice  fix.  The  gyrls  will  be  em 
ployed  and  busy  an'  you  can  jes'  live  comf't'bly,  an' 
res'.  An'  say,"  he  added,  slyly  — "  you  can  get  all  the 
credit  at  the  Company's  sto'  you  want  an'  I'm  thinkin' 
you'll  find  a  better  brand  of  licker  than  that  you've 
been  samplin'." 

Besotted  as  he  was  —  hardened  and  discouraged  — 
the  proposition  came  over  Conway  with  a  wave  of 
shame.  Even  through  his  weakened  mind  the  old  in 
stinct  of  the  gentleman  asserted  itself,  and  for  a  mo 
ment  the  sweet  refined  face  of  a  beautiful  dead  wife, 
the  delicate  beauty  of  a  little  daughter,  the  queenliness 


48  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

of  an  elder  one,  all  the  product  of  good  breeding  and 
rearing,  came  over  him.  He  sprang  to  his  feet. 
"  What  do  you  mean,  suh  ?  My  daughters  —  grand 
children  of  Gen.  Leonidas  Conway  —  my  daughters 
work  in  the  mill  by  the  side  of  that  poor  trash  from  the 
mountains?  I'll  see  you  damned  first." 

He  sat  down  —  he  bowed  his  head  in  his  hands.  A 
glinty  look  came  into  his  eyes. 

Jud  drew  his  chair  up  closer:  "But  jes'  think  a 
minute  —  you're  sold  out  —  you've  got  no  whur  to  go, 
you've  wuck'd  yo'self  down  try  in'  to  save  the  farm. 
We've  all  got  to  wuck  these  days.  The  war  has  changed 
all  the  old  order  of  things.  We  havn't  got  any  mo' 
slaves." 

"  We,"  -  repeated  Conway,  and  he  looked  at  the 
man  and  laughed. 

Jud  flushed  even  through  his  sallow  skin : 

"  Wai,  that's  all  right,"  he  added.  "  Listen  to  me, 
now,  I'm  tryin'  to  save  you  from  trouble.  The  war 
changed  everything.  Your  folks  got  to  whur  they  did 
by  wuckin'.  They'  built  up  this  big  estate  by  economy 
an'  wuck.  Now,  you  mus'  do  it.  You've  got  the  old 
dead-game  Conway  breedin'  in  yo'  bones  an'  you've 
got  the  brains,  too."  He  lowered  his  voice :  "  It's  only 
for  a  little  while  —  jes'  a  year  or  so  —  it'll  give  you  a 
nice  little  home  to  live  in  while  you  brace  up  an'  pull 
out  of  debt  an'  redeem  yo'  farm.  Here  —  it  is  only 
for  a  year  or  so  —  sign  this  —  givin'  you  a  home,  an' 
start  all  over  in  life  —  sign  it  right  there,  only  for  a 
little  while  —  a  chance  to  git  on  yo'  feet  — ." 


FOOD  FOR  THE  FACTORY  49 

Conwaj  scarcely  knew  how  it  happened  that  he  signed 
—  for  Jud  quickly  changed  the  subject. 

After  a  while  Jud  arose  to  go.  As  he  did  so,  Lily, 
the  little  daughter,  came  out,  and  putting  her  arms 
around  her  father's  neck,  kissed  him  and  said: 

"  Papa  —  luncheon  is  served,  and  oh,  do  come  on ! 
Mammy  and  Helen  and  I  are  so  hungry." 

Mammy  Maria  had  followed  her  and  stood  deferen 
tially  behind  the  chair.  And  as  Jud  went  away  he 
thought  he  saw  in  the  old  woman's  eyes,  as  she  watched 
him,  a  trace  of  that  fine  scorn  bred  of  generations  of 
gentleness,  but  which  whiskey  had  destroyed  in  the 
master. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   FLY   CATCHER    CAUGHT 

AS  Jud  went  out  of  the  dilapidated  gate  at  Mill 
wood,    he    chuckled    to    himself.     He    had,    in 
deed,  accomplished  something.      He  had  gained 
a    decided    advance    in    the    labor   circles    of   the    mill. 
He  had  broken  into  the  heretofore  overpowering  preju 
dice  the  better  class  had  against  the  mill,  for  he  held  in 
his  possession  the  paper  wherein  an  aristocrat  had  signed 
his  two  daughters   into   it.     Wouldn't  Richard  Travis 
chuckle  with  him? 

In  the  South  social  standing  is  everything. 

To  have  the  mill  represented  by  a  first  family  — 
even  if  brought  to  poverty  through  drunkenness  —  was 
an  entering  wedge. 

His  next  job  was  easier.  A  mile  farther  on,  the 
poor  lands  of  the  mountain  side  began.  Up  on  the 
slope  was  a  cabin,  in  the  poorest  and  rockiest  portion 
of  it,  around  the  door  of  which  half  a  dozen  cracker 
children  stared  at  Jud  with  unfeigned  interest  as  he 
rode  up.  * 

"  Light  an'  look  at  yer  saddle  "  —  came  from  a  typ 
ical  Hillite  within,  as  Jud  stopped. 

Jud  promptly  complied  —  alighted  and  looked  at  his 
saddle. 

A  cur  —  which,  despite  his  breeding,  is  always  a  keen 

50 


THE  FLY  CATCHER  CAUGHT  51 

detective  of  character  —  followed  him,  barking  at  his 
heels. 

This  one  knew  Jud  as  instinctively  and  as  accurately 
as  he  knew  a  fresh  bone  from  a  rank  one  —  by  smell. 
He  was  also  a  judge  of  other  dogs  and,  catching  sight 
of  Bonaparte,  his  anger  suddenly  fled  and  he  with  it. 

"  Won't  3^ou  set  down  an'  res'  yo'  hat?  "  came  invit 
ingly  from  the  doorway. 

Jud  sat  down  and  rested  his  hat. 

A  tall,  lank  woman,  smoking  a  cob  pipe  which  had 
grown  black  with  age  and  Samsonian  in  strength,  came 
from  the  next  room.  She  merely  ducked  her  long,  sharp 
nose  at  Jud  and,  pretending  to  be  busily  engaged  around 
the  room,  listened  closely  to  all  that  was  said. 

Jud  told  the  latest  news,  spoke  of  the  \veather  and 
made  many  familiar  comments  as  he  talked.  Then  he 
began  to  draw  out  the  man  and  woman.  They  were 
poor,  child-burdened  and  dissatisfied.  Gradually,  care 
fully,  he  talked  mill  and  the  blessings  of  it.  He  drew 
glorious  pictures  of  the  house  he  would  take  them  to, 
its  conveniences  —  the  opportunities  of  the  town  for 
them  all.  He  took  up  the  case  of  each  of  the  six 
children,  running  from  the  tot  of  six  to  the  girl  of 
twenty,  and  showed  what  they  could  earn. 

In  all  it  amounted  to  sixteen  dollars  a  week. 

"  You  slio'ly  don't  mean  it  comes  to  sixteen  dollars 
ev'y  week,"  said  the  woman,  taking  the  cob  pipe  out  for 
the  first  time,  long  enough  to  spit  and  wipe  her  mouth 
on  the  back  of  her  hand.  "  an'  all  in  silver  an'  all 
our'n  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Why  that  thar  is  mo'  money'n 


52  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

.we've  seed  this  year.  What  do  you  say  to  try  in'  it, 
Josiah?" 

Josiah  was  willing.  "  You  see,"  he  added,  "  we 
needn't  stay  thar  longer'n  a  year  or  so.  We'll  git  the 
money  an'  then  come  back  an'  buy  a  good  piece  of  land." 

Suddenly  he  stopped  and  fired  this  point  blank  at 
Jud :  "  But  see  heah,  Mister-man,  is  thar  any  niggers 
thar?  Do  we  hafter  wuck  with  niggers?  " 

Jud  looked  indignant.     It  was  enough. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  the  family  head  had  signed  for 
a  five  years'  contract.  They  would  move  the  next  week. 

"  Cash  —  think  of  it  —  cash  ever'  week.  An'  in  sil 
ver,  too,"  said  the  woman.  "  Why,  I  dunno  hardly  how 
it'll  feel.  I'm  afeared  it  mou't  gin  me  the  eetch." 

Jud,  when  he  left,  had  induced  their  parents  to  sell 
five  children  into  slavery  for  five  years. 

It  meant  for  life. 

And  both  parents  declared  when  he  left  that  never 
before  had  they  "  seed  sech  a  nice  man." 

Jud  had  nearly  reached  the  town  when  he  passed, 
high  up  on  the  level  plateau  by  which  the  mountain  road 
now  ran,  the  comfortable  home  of  Elder  Butts.  Peach 
and  apple  trees  adorned  the  yard,  while  bee-hives  sat  in  a 
corner  under  the  shade  of  them  behind  the  cottage. 
The  tinkle  of  a  sheep  bell  told  of  a  flock  of  sheep  nearby. 
A  neatly  painted  new  wagon  stood  under  the  shed  by 
the  house,  and  all  around  was  an  air  of  thrift  and 
work. 

"  Now  if  I  cu'd  git  that  Butts  family,"  he  mused, 
"  I'd  have  something  to  crow  about  when  I  got  back  to 
Kingsley  to-night.  He's  got  a  little  farm  an'  is  well 


THE  FLY  CATCHER  CAUGHT  53 

to  do  an'  is  thrifty,  an'  if  I  cu'd  only  git  that  class 
started  in  the  mill  an'  contented  to  wuck  there,  it  'ud 
open  up  a  new  class  of  people.  There's  that  Archie  B. 
—  confound  him,  he  cu'd  run  ten  machines  at  onct  and 
never  know  it.  I'd  like  to  sweat  that  bottled  mischief 
out  of  him  a  year  or  two. 

"  Hello !  " 

Jud  drew  his  horse  up  with  a  jerk.  Above  him,  with 
legs  locked,  high  up  around  the  body  of  a  dead  willow, 
his  seat  the  stump  of  a  broken  bough  and  fully  twenty 
feet  above  the  employment  agent's  head,  sat  Archie  B., 
a  freckled-faced  lad,  with  fiery  red  hair  and  a  world  of 
fun  in  his  blue  eyes.  He  was  one  of  the  Butts  twins  and 
the  very  object  of  the  Whipper-in's  thoughts.  From 
his  head  to  his  feet  he  had  on  but  three  garments  —  a 
small,  battered,  all-wool  hat,  a  coarse  cotton  shirt,  wide 
open  at  the  neck,  and  a  pair  of  jeans  pants  which  came 
to  his  knees.  But  in  the  pockets  of  his  pants  were  small 
samples  of  everything  of  wood  and  field,  from  shells  of 
rare  bird  eggs  to  a  small  supply  of  Gypsy  Juice. 

His  pockets  were  miniature  museums  of  nature. 

No  one  but  a  small  boy,  bent  on  fun,  knows  what 
Gipsy  Juice  is.  No  adult  has  ever  been  able  to  procure 
its  formula  and  no  small  boy  in  the  South  cares,  so 
long  as  he  can  get  it. 

"The  thing  that  hit  does,"  Archie  B.  explained  to 
his  timid  and  pious  twin  brother,  Ozzie  B.,  "is  ter  make 
anything  it  touches  that  wears  hair  git  up  and  git." 

Coons,  possums,  dogs,  cats  —  with  now  and  then  a 
country  horse  or  mule,  hitched  to  the  town  rack  —  with 
these,  and  a  small  vial  of  Gypsy  Juice,  Archie  B.,  as  he 


54  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

expressed  it,  "  had  mo'  fun  to  the  square  inch  than  ole 
Barnum's  show  ever  hilt  in  all  its  tents." 

Jud  stood  a  moment  watching  the  boy.  It  was  easy 
to  see  what  Archie  B.  was  after.  In  the  body  of  the 
dead  tree  a  wood-pecker  had  chiseled  out  a  round  hole. 

"Hello,  yo'se'f  " — finally  drawled  Jud  — "  whatcher 
doin'  up  thar?  " 

"  Why,  I  am  goin'  to  see  if  this  is  a  wood-pecker's 
nes'  or  a  fly-ketcher's." 

Bonaparte  caught  his  cue  at  once  and  ran  to  the  foot 
of  the  tree  barking  viciously,  daring  the  tree-climber 
to  come  down.  His  vicious  eyes  danced  gleefully.  He 
looked  at  his  master  between  his  snarls  as  much  as  to 
say :  "  Well,  this  is  great,  to  tree  the  real  live  son 
of  the  all-conquering  man !  " 

It  maddened  him,  too,  to  see  the  supreme  indifference 
with  which  the  all-conqueror's  son  treated  his  presence. 

Jud  grunted.  He  prided  himself  on  his  bird-lore. 
Finally  he  said :  "  Wai,  any  fool  could  tell  you  —  its 
a  wood-pecker's  nest." 

"  Yes,  that's  so  and  jus'  exacly  what  a  fool  'ud  say," 
came  back  from  the  tree.  "  But  it  'ud  be  because  he  is 
a  fool,  tho',  an'  don't  see  things  as  they  be.  It's  a 
fly-ketcher's  nest,  for  all  that  — "  he  added. 

"  Teach  yo'  gran'-mammy  how  to  milk  the  house  cat," 
sneered  Jud,  while  Bonaparte  grew  furious  again  with 
this  added  insult.  "  Don't  you  know  a  wood-pecker's 
nest  when  you  see  it  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Archie  B.,  "an'  I  also  know  a  fly- 
ketcher  will  whip  a  wood-pecker  and  take  his  nevs'  from 


THE  FLY  CATCHER  CAUGHT  55 

him,  an'  I've  come  up  here  to  see  if  it's  so  with  this 
one." 

"  Oh,"  said  Jud,  surprised,  "  an'  what  is  it?  " 

"  Jus'  as  I  said  —  he's  whipped  the  wood-pecker  an* 
tuck  his  nes'." 

"What's  a  fly-ketcher,  Mister  Know-It- All ?"  said 
Jud.  Then  he  grinned  derisively. 

Bonaparte,  watching  his  master,  ran  around  the  tree 
again  and  squatting  on  his  stump  of  a  tail  grinned  like 
wise. 

"  A  fly-ketcher,"  said  Archie  B.  calmly,  "  is  a  sneak 
ing  sort  of  a  bird,  that  ketches  flies  an'  little  helpless  in 
sects  for  a  —  mill,  maybe.  Do  you  know  any  two- 
legged  fly-ketchers  a-doin'  that?  " 

Jud  glared  at  him,  and  Bonaparte  grew  so  angry  that 
he  snapped  viciously  at  the  bark  of  the  tree  as  if  he 
would  tear  it  down. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  little  imp  ?  —  what  mill  ?  " 

"  Why  his  stomach,"  drawled  Archie  B.,  "  it's  a  little 
differunt  from  a  cotton-mill,  but  it  grinds  'em  to  death 
all  the  same." 

Jud  looked  up  again.     He  glared  at  Archie  B. 

"  How  do  you  know  that's  a  fly-ketcher's  nest  and 
not  a  wood-pecker's,  then  ?  "  he  asked,  to  change  the 
subject. 

"  That's  what  I'd  like  to  know,  too,"  said  Bonaparte 
as  plainly  as  his  growls  and  two  mean  eyes  could  say  it. 

"  If  it's  a  fly-ketcher's,  the  nest  will  be  lined  with  a 
snake's-skin,"  said  Archie  B.  "  That's  nachrul,  ain't 
it,"  he  added  — •"  the  nest  of  all  sech  is  lined  with  snake- 
skins." 


56  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Bonaparte,  one  of  whose  chief  amusements  in  life  was 
killing  snakes,  seemed  to  think  this  a  personal  thrust  at 
himself,  for  he  flew  around  the  tree  with  renewed  rage 
while  Archie  B.,  safe  on  his  high  perch,  made  faces  at 
him  and  laughed. 

"  I'll  bet  it  ain't  that  way,"  said  Jud,  rattled  and  dis 
comfited  and  shifting  his  long  squirrel  gun  across  his 
saddle.  Archie  B.  replied  by  carefully  thrusting  a 
brown  sun-burnt  arm  into  the  hole  and  bringing  out  a 
nest.  "  Now,  a  wood-pecker's  egg,"  he  said,  carefully 
lifting  an  egg  out  and  then  replacing  it,  "  'ud  be  pearly 
white." 

"  How  did  you  learn  all  that?  "  sneered  Jud. 

"  Oh,  by  keepin'  out  of  a  cotton  mill  an'  usrn'  my 
eye,"  said  Archie  B.,  winking  at  Bonaparte. 

Bonaparte  glared  back. 

"  I'd  like  to  git  you  into  the  mill,"  said  Jud.  "  I'd 
put  you  to  wuck  doin'  somethin'  that  'ud  be  worth 
while." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  would  for  a  few  years,"  sneered  back 
Archie  B.  "  Then  you'd  put  me  under  the  groun', 
where  I'd  have  plenty  o'  time  to  res'." 

"  I'm  goin'  up  there  now  to  see  yo'  folks  an'  see  if  I 
can't  git  you  into  the  mill." 

"  Oh,  you  are?  —  Well,  don't  be  in  sech  a  hurry  an' 
look  heah  at  yo'  snake-skin  fust  —  didn't  I  tell  you  it 
'ud  be  lined  with  a  snake-skin  ?  "  And  he  threw  down  a 
last  year's  snake-skin  which  Bonaparte  proceeded  to 
rend  with  great  fury. 

"  Now,  come  under  here,"  went  on  Archie  B.  persua 
sively,  "  and  I'll  sho'  you  they're  not  pearly  white,  like 


THE  FLY  CATCHER  CAUGHT  57 

a  wood-pecker's,  but  cream-colored  with  little  purple 
splotches  scratched  over  'em  —  like  a  fly-ketcher's." 

Jud  rode  under  and  looked  up.  As  he  did  so  Archie 
B.  suddenly  turned  the  nest  upside  down,  that  Jud 
might  see  the  eggs,  and  as  he  looked  up  four  eggs  shot 
out  before  he  could  duck  his  head,  and  caught  him 
squarely  between  his  shaggy  eyes.  Blinded,  smeared 
with  yelk  and  smarting  with  his  eyes  full  of  fine  broken 
shell,  he  scrambled  from  his  horse,  with  many  oaths,  and 
began  feeling  for  the  little  branch  of  water  which  ran 
nearby. 

"  I'll  cut  that  tree  down,  but  I'll  git  you  and  wring 
yo'  neck,"  he  shouted,  while  Bonaparte  endeavored  to 
tear  it  down  with  his  teeth. 

But  Archie  B.  did  not  wait.  Slowly  he  slid  down 
the  tree,  while  Bonaparte,  thunder-struck  with  joy, 
waited  at  the  foot,  his  eyes  glaring,  his  mouth  wide  open, 
anticipating  the  feast  on  fresh  boy  meat.  Can  he 
be  —  dare  he  be  —  coming  down?  Right  into  my  jaws, 
too?  The  very  thought  of  it  stopped  his  snarls. 

Jud's  curses  filled  the  air. 

Down  —  down,  slid  Archie  B.,  both  legs  locked 
around  the  tree,  until  some  ten  feet  above  the  dog,  and, 
then  tantalizingly,  just  out  of  reach,  he  suddenly 
tightened  his  brown  brakes  of  legs,  and  thrusting  his 
hand  in  his  pocket,  pulled  out  a  small  rubber  ball. 
Reaching  over,  he  squirted  half  of  its  contents  over  the 
dog,  which  still  sat  snarling,  half  in  fury  and  half  in 
wonder. 

Then  something  happened.  Jud  could  not  see,  being 
down  on  his  knees  in  the  little  stream,  washing  his  eyes, 


58  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

but  he  first  heard  demoniacal  barks  proceed  from  Bona 
parte,  ending  in  wailful  snorts,  howls  and  whines,  be 
ginning  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  and  echoing  in  a  fast 
vanishing  wail  toward  home. 

Jud  got  one  eye  in  working  order  soon  enough  to  see 
a  cloud  of  sand  and  dust  rolling  down  the  road,  from  the 
rear  of  which  only  the  stub  of  a  tail  could  be  seen, 
curled  spasmodically  downward  toward  the  earth. 

Jud  could  scarcely  believe  his  eyes  —  Bonaparte  — 
the  champion  dog  —  running  —  running  like  that? 

"Whut  —  whut  —  whut  "  —  he  stammered,  "  Whut 
did  he  do  to  Bonaparte  ?  " 

Then  he  saw  Archie  B.  up  the  road  toward  home, 
rolling  in  the  sand  with  shouts  of  laughter. 

"  If  I  git  my  hands  on  you,"  yelled  Jud,  shaking  his 
fist  at  the  boy,  "  I'll  swaller  you  alive." 

"  That's  what  the  fly-ketcher  said  to  the  butterfly," 
shouted  back  Archie  B. 

It  was  a  half  hour  before  Jud  got  all  the  fine  egg 
shell  out  of  his  eyes.  After  that  he  decided  to  let  the 
Butts  family  alone  for  the  present.  But  as  he  rorlo 
away  he  was  heard  to  say  again: 

"Whut  —  whut  —  whut  did  he  do  to  Bonaparte?" 

Archie  B.  was  still  rolling  on  the  ground,  and  chuck 
ling  now  and  then  in  fits  of  laughter,  when  a  determined, 
motherly  looking,  fat  girl  appeared  at  the  doorway  of 
the  family  cottage.  It  was  his  sister,  Patsy  Butts: 

"  Maw,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  wish  you'd  look  at  Archie 
B.  I  bet  he's  done  sump'in." 

There  was  a  parental  manner  in  her  way.  Her  one 
object  in  life,  evidently,  was  to  watch  Archie  B. 


THE  FLY  CATCHER  CAUGHT  59 

"  You  Archie  B.,"  yelled  his  mother,  a  sallow  little 
woman  of  quick  nervous  movements,  "  air  you  havin'  a 
revulsion  down  there?  What  air  you  been  doin'  any 
way?  Now,  you  git  up  from  there  and  go  see  why 
Ozzie  B.  don't  fetch  the  cows  home." 

Archie  B.  arose  and  went  down  the  road  whistling. 

A  ground  squirrel  ran  into  a  pile  of  rocks.  Archie 
B.  turned  the  rocks  about  until  he  found  the  nest,  which 
he  examined  critically  and  with  care.  He  fingered  it 
carefully  and  patted  it  back  into  shape.  "  Nice  little 
nes%"  he  said  —  "  that  settles  it  —  I  thought  they  lined 
it  with  fur."  Then  he  replaced  the  rocks  and  arose 
to  go. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  down  the  road  he  stopped  and 
listened. 

He  heard  his  brother,  Ozzie  B.,  sobbing  and  weeping. 

Ozzie  B.  was  his  twin  brother  —  his  "  after  clap  " 
—  as  Archie  B.  called  him.  He  was  timid,  uncertain, 
pious  and  given  to  tears  — "  bo'hn  on  a  wet  Friday  "— 
as  Archie  B.  had  often  said.  He  was  always  the  effect 
of  Archie  B.'s  cause,  the  illustration  of  his  theorem,  the 
solution  of  his  problem  of  mischief,  the  penalty  of  his 
misdemeanors. 

Presently  Ozzie  B.  came  in  sight,  hatless  and  driving 
his  cows  along,  but  sobbing  in  that  hiccoughy  way  which 
is  the  final  stage  of  an  acute  thrashing. 

No  one  saw  more  quickly  than  Archie  B.,  and  he 
knew  instantly  that  his  brother  had  met  Jud  Carpenter, 
on  his  way  back  to  the  mill. 

"  He's  caught  my  lickin'  ag'in,"  said  Archie  B.,  in 
dignantly  —  "  it's  a  pity  he  looks  so  much  like  me." 


50  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

It  was  true,  and  Ozzie  B.  stood  and  dug  one  toe  into 
the  ground,  and  sobbed  and  wiped  his  eyes  on  his  shirt 
sleeve,  and  told  how,  in  spite  of  his  explanations  and 
beseechings,  the  Whipper-in  had  met  him  down  the  road 
and  thrashed  him  unmercifully. 

"  Ozzie  B.,"  said  his  brother,  "  you  make  me  tired  all 
over  and  in  spots.  I  hate  for  as  big  a  fool  as  you  to 
look  like  me  Why ncher  run  —  whyncher  dodge  him  ?  " 

"I  —  I  —  wanted  ter  do  my  duty,"  sobbed  Ozzie  B. 
"  Maw  tole  me  ter  drive  —  drive  the  cows  right  up  the 
road  — " 

Archie  B.   surveyed  him  with   fine  scorn: 

"When  the  Devil's  got  the  road,"  said  Archie  B., 
"  decent  fo'ks  had  better  take  to  the  wood.  I'd  fixed 
him  an'  his  ole  dorg,  an'  now  you  come  along  an'  spile 
it  all." 

He  made  a  cross  mark  in  the  road  and  spat  on  it. 
Then  he  turned  with  his  back  to  the  cross,  threw  his  hat 
over  his  head  and  said  slowly :  "  Venture  pee  wee  under 
the  bridge!  bam  —  bam  —  bam!  " 

"What's  that  fur?"  asked  Ozzie  B.,  as  he  ceased 
sobbing.  His  brother  always  had  something  new,  and  it 
was  always  absorbingly  interesting  to  Ozzie  B. 

"  That,"  said  Archie  B.,  solemnly,  "  I  allers  say  after 
meetin'  a  Jonah  in  the  road.  The  spell  is  now  broke. 
Jus'  watch  me  fix  Jud  Carpenter  agin.  Wanter  see  me 
git  even  with  him?  Well,  come  along." 

"  What'll  you  do?"  asked  Ozzie  B. 

"  I'll  make  that  mustang  break  his  neck  for  the  way 
he  treated  you,  or  my  name  ain't  Archie  B.  Butts  — 


THE  FLY  CATCHER  CAUGHT  61 

that's  all.  Venture  pee  wee  under  the  bridge,  bam  — 
bam  —  bam!  " 

"No  —  oo  —  no,"  began  Ozzie  B.,  beginning  to  cry- 
again  —  "  Don't  kill  'im  —  it'll  be  cruel." 

"  Don't  wanter  see  me  go  an'  git  even'  with  the  man 
that's  jus'  licked  you  for  nuthin'?" 

"  No  —  oo  —  no  — "  sobbed  Ozzie  B.  "  Paw  says  — 
leave  —  leave  —  that  for  —  the  Lord." 

"  Tarnashun ! "  —  said  Archie  B.,  spitting  on  the 
ground,  disgustedly  — ,  "  too  much  relig'un  is  a  dang'us 
thing.  You've  got  all  of  paw's  relig'un  an'  maw's 
brains,  an'  that's  'nuff  said." 

With  this  he  kicked  Ozzie  B.  soundly  and  sent  him, 
still  sobbing,  up  the  road. 

Then  he  ran  across  the  wood  to  head  off  Jud  Carpen 
ter,  who  he  knew  had  to  go  around  a  bend  in  the  road. 

There  was  no  bird  that  Archie  B.  could  not  mimic. 
He  knew  every  creature  of  the  wood.  Every  wild  thing 
of  the  field  and  forest  was  his  friend.  Slipping  into 
the  underbrush,  a  hundred  yards  from  the  road  down 
which  he  knew  Jud  Carpenter  had  to  ride,  he  prepared 
himself  for  action. 

Drawing  a  turkey-call  from  his  pocket,  he  gave  the 
call  of  the  wild  turkey  going  to  roost,  as  softly  as  a 
violinist  tries  his  instrument  to  see  if  it  is  in  tune. 

Prut  —  prut  —  prut  —  it  rang  out  clear  and  dis 
tinctly. 

"  All  right,"—  he  said  —"she'll  do." 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  Up  the  road  he  soon  saw 
the  Whipper-in,  riding  leisurely  along. 

Archie  B.  swelled  with  anger  at  sight  of  the  compla- 


63  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

cent  and  satisfactory  way  he  rode  along.  He  even 
thought  he  saw  a  smile  —  a  kind  of  even-up  smile  — 
light  his  face. 

When  opposite  his  hiding  place,  Archie  B.  put  his 
call  to  his'  mouth:  Prut  —  Prut  —  P-R-U-T  —  it 
rang  out.  Then  Prut  —  prut ! 

Jud  Carpenter  stopped  his  horse  instantly. 

"  Turkeys  goin'  to  roost  " —  he  muttered.  He  lis 
tened  for  the  direction. 

Prut  —  Prut  —  it  came  out  of  the  bushes  on  the 
right  —  a  hundred  yards  away  under  a  beech  tree. 

Jud  listened :  "  Eatin'  beech-mast  " —  he  said,  and 
he  slipped  off  his  pony,  tied  him  quietly  to  the  limb  of 
a  sweet-gum  tree,  and  cocking  .his  long  gun,  slipped 
into  the  wood. 

Five  minutes  later  he  heard  the  sound  still  farther  off. 
"  They're  walkin',"  muttered  Jud  — "  I  mus'  head  'em 
off."  Then  he  pushed  on  rapidly  into  the  forest. 

Archie  B.  let  him  go  —  then,  making  a  short  circuit, 
slipped  like  an  Indian  through  the  wood,  and  came  up 
to  the  pony  hitched  on  the  road  side. 

Quietly  removing  the  saddle  and  blanket,  he  took  two 
tough  prickly  burrs  of  the  sweet-gum  and  placed  one  on 
each  side  of  the  pony's  spine,  where  the  saddle  would 
rest.  Then  he  put  the  blanket  and  saddle  back,  taking 
care  to  place  them  on  very  gently  and  tighten  the  girth 
but  lightly. 

He  shook  all  over  with  suppressed  mirth  as  he  went 
farther  into  the  wood,  and  lay  down  on  the  mossy  bank 
behind  a  clay-root  to  watch  the  performance. 

It  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  Jud,  thoroughly 


THE  FLY  CATCHER  CAUGHT  63 

tired  and  disgusted,  gave  up  the  useless  search  and  came 
back. 

Untying  the  pony,  he  threw  the  bridle  rein  over 
its  head  and  vaulted  lightly  into  the  saddle< 

Archie  B.  grabbed  the  day-root  and  stuffed  his  wool 
hat  into  his  mouth  just  in  time. 

"  It  was  worth  a  dollar,''  he  told  Ozzie  B.  that  night, 
after  they  had  retired  to  their  trundle  bed.  "  The  pony 
squatted  fust  mighty  nigh  to  the  groun' —  then  he  riz 
a-buckin'.  I  seed  Jud's  coat-tail  a-turnin'  summersets 
through  the  air,  the  saddle  and  blanket  a-followin'.  I 
heard  him  when  he  hit  the  swamp  hole  on  the  side  of  the 
road  kersplash!  —  an'  the  pony  skeered  speechless  went 
off  tearin'  to-ards  home.  Then  I  hollered  out :  *  Go 
it  ole,  fly-ketcher  —  you're  as  good  for  tad-poles  as  you 
is  for  bird-eggs  ' —  an'  I  lit  out  through  the  wood." 

Ozzie  B.  burst  out  crying:  "  Oh,  Archie  B.,  do  you 
reckin  the  po'  man  got  hurt  ?  " 

Archie  B.  replied  by  kicking  him  in  the  ribs  until  he 
ceased  crying. 

"  Say  yo'  prayers  now  and  go  to  sleep.  I'll  kick 
you  m'se'f,  but  I'll  lick  anybody  else  that  does  it." 

As  Ozzie  B.  dozed  off  he  heard : 

"  Venture  pee-wee  under  the  bridge  —  bam  —  bam  — 
bam.  Oh,  Lord,  you  who  made  the  tar'nal  fools  of  this 
world,  have  mussy  on  'em  l  " 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    FLINT    AND    THE    COAL 

LOVE  is  love  and  there  is  nothing  in  all  the  world 
like  it.     Its  romance  comes  but  once,  and  it  is 
the  perfume  that  precedes  the  ripened  fruit  of 
all  after  life.     It  is  not  amenable  to  any  of  the  laws  of 
reason;  nor  subject  to  any  law  of  logic;  nor  can  it  be 
explained   by   the   analogy    of   anything   in   heaven    or 
earth.     Do  not,  therefore,  try  to  reason  about  it.     Only 
love  once  —  and  in  youth  —  and  be  forever  silent. 

One  of  the  mysteries  of  love  to  older  ones  is  that 
two  young  people  may  become  engaged  and  never  a 
word  be  spoken.  Put  the  girl  in  a  convent,  even,  and 
let  the  boy  but  walk  past,  and  the  thing  is  done.  They 
look  and  love,  and  the  understanding  is  complete.  They 
see  and  sigh,  and  read  each  other's  secret  thought*,  past 
and  present  —  each  other's  hopes,  fears. 

They  sigh  and  are  engaged,  and  there  is  perfect  un 
derstanding. 

Time  and  Romance  travel  not  together.  Time  must 
hurry  on.  Romance  would  loiter  by  the  way.  And  so 
Romance,  in  her  completeness,  loves  to  dwell  most  where 
Time,  traveling  over  the  mile-tracks  of  the  tropics, 
which  belong  by  heredity  to  Alabama  —  stalks  slower 
than  on  those  strenuous  half-mile  tracks  that  spin 

64 


THE  FLINT  AND  THE  COAL  65 

around  the  earth  in  latitudes  which  grow  smaller  as  they 
approach  the  frozen  pole. 

The  sun  had  reached,  in  his  day's  journey,  the  bald 
knob  of  Sunset  Peak,  and  there,  behind  it,  seemed  to 
stop.  At  least  to  Helen  Conway,  born  and  reared  under 
the  brow  of  Sand  Mountain,  he  seemed  every  afternoon, 
when  he  reached  the  mountain  peak,  to  linger,  in  a 
friendly  way,  behind  it. 

And  a  bold  warrior-looking  crest  it  was,  helmeted 
with  a  stratum  of  sand-stone,  jutting  out  in  visor-shaped 
fullness  about  his  head,  and  feathery  above  with  scrub- 
oak  and  cedar. 

Perhaps  it  had  been  a  fancy  which  lingered  from 
childhood;  but  from  the  time  when  Mammy  Maria  had 
first  told  her  that  the  sun  went  to  bed  in  the  valley 
beyond  the  mountain  until  now, —  her  eighteenth  year, 
—  Helen  still  loved  to  think  it  was  true,  and  that  behind 
the  face  of  Sunset  Rock  he  still  lingered  to  undress; 
and,  lingering,  it  made  for  her  the  sweetest  and  most 
romantic  period  of  the  day. 

True  to  her  antebellum  ideas,  Mammy  Maria  dressed 
her  two  girls  every  afternoon  before  dinner.  It  is  also 
true  that  she  cooked  the  dinner  herself  and  made  their 
dresses  with  her  own  fingers,  and  that  of  late  years,  in 
the  poverty  of  her  drunken  master,  she  had  Mttle  to 
dress  them  with  and  less  to  cook. 

But  the  resources  of  the  old  woman  seemed  wonderful 
-  to  the  people  round  about, —  for  never  were  two  girls 
more  gorgeously  gowned  than  Helen  and  Lily.     It  was 
humorous,  it  was  pathetic  —  the  way  it  was  done. 

From  old  bureau   drawers   and   cedar   chests,   stored 


66  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

away  in  the  attic  and  unused  rooms  of  Millwood,  where 
she  herself  had  carefully  put  them  in  days  long  gone  — 
days  of  plenty  and  thrift  —  she  brought  forth  rich 
gowns  of  another  age,  and  made  them  over  for  Helen 
and  Lily. 

"  Now,  this  gown  was  Miss  Clara's,"  she  would  say 
as  she  took  out  a  bundle  of  satin  and  old  lace.  She 
looked  at  it  fondly  —  often  with  tears  in  her  honest 
black  eyes.  "  Lor',  how  well  I  disremember  the  night 
she  fust  wore  it  —  the  night  of  the  ball  we  give  to 
Jineral  Jackson  when  he  first  come  to  see  old  Marster. 
This  flowered  silk  with  pol'naize  she  wore  at  the  Guv 
nor's  ball  and  the  black  velvet  with  cut  steel  I've  seed 
her  wearin'  at  many  an'  many  a  dinner  here  in  this  very 
house." 

And  so  the  old  woman  would  go  over  all  her  treasures. 
Then,  in  a  few  days  the  gossipy  and  astounded  neigh 
bors  would  behold  Helen  and  Lily,  dressed,  each,  in  a 
gown  of  white  brocaded  satin,  with  a  dinner  gown  of 
black  velvet,  and  foi  Sunday,  old  point  lace,  with  petti 
coats  of  finest  hand-made  Irish  linen  and  silk  stockings 
—  all  modernized  with  matchless  deft  and  skill. 

"  I  guess  my  gals  will  shine  as  long  as  the  old  chist 
lasts,"  she  would  say,  "  an'  I  ain't  started  on  'em  yet. 
I'm  a-savin'  some  for  their  weddin',  bless  Gord,  if  I 
ever  sees  a  man  fitten  for  'em." 

It  was  an  hour  yet  before  dinner,  and  Aunt  Maria  had 
dressed  Helen,  this  Saturday  afternoon,  with  great  care 
—  for  after  a  little  frost,  each  day  and  night  in  Ala 
bama  becomes  warmer  and  warmer  until  the  next  frost. 

Mammy  Maria  knew  things  by  intuition,  and  hence 


THE  FLINT  AND  THE  COAL  67 

her  care  to  see  that  Helen  looked  especially  pretty  to 
day. 

There  was  no  sun  save  where  he  streamed  his  ribbon 
rays  from  behind  Sunset  Rock,  and  threw  them  in  pearl 
and  ivory  fan  handles  —  white  and  gold  and  emerald, 
across  the  mackerel  sky  beyond. 

Helen's  silk  skirt  fitted  her  well,  and  one  of  those 
beautiful  old  ribbons,  flowered  in  broad  leaf  and  blos 
soms,  wound  twice  around  her  slender  waist  and  fell  in 
broad  streamers  nearly  to  the  ground.  The  bodice  was 
cut  V-shaped  at  the  throat  —  the  corsage  being  taken 
from  one  of  her  grandmother's  made  in  18£S,  and 
around  her  neck  was  a  long  chain  of  pure  gold  beads. 

She  was  a  type  of  Southern  beauty  obtained  only 
after  years  of  gentle  dames  and  good  breeding. 

Her  face  was  pure  and  fine,  rather  expressionless  at 
her  age,  with  a  straight  nose  and  rich  fine  lips.  Her 
heavy  hair  'was  coiled  gracefully  about  her  head  and 
fell  in  a  longer  coil,  almost  to  her  shoulders.  She  was 
tall  with  a  sloping,  angular  form,  the  flat  outlines  of 
which  were  not  yet  filled  with  that  fullness  that  time 
would  soon  add. 

Her  waist  was  well  turned,  her  shoulders  broad  and 
slightly  rounded,  with  that  fullness  of  chest  and  breast 
which  Nature,  in  her  hour  of  generosity,  gives  only  to 
the  queenly  woman.  The  curves  of  her  sloping  neck 
were  perfect  and  carried  not  a  wave-line  of  grossness. 
It  was  as  unsensual  as  a  swan's. 

Her  gown,  low  cut,  showed  slight  bony  shoulders  of 
classic  turn  and  whiteness,  waiting  only  for  time  to 
ripen  them  to  perfection ;  and  the  long  curved  lines  which 


68  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

ran  up  to  where  the  deep  braid  of  her  rich  brown  hair 
fell  over  them,  together  with  the  big  joints  of  her  arms 
and  the  long,  fine  profile  of  her  face  were  forerunners  of 
a  beauty  that  is  strong  —  like  that  of  the  thoroughbred 
brood  mare  after  a  year's  run  on  blue-grass. 

Her  eyes  were  her  only  weakness.  They  were  deep 
and  hazel,  and  given  to  drooping  too  readily  with  that 
feigned  modesty  wherein  vanity  clothes  boldness.  Down 
in  their  depths,  also,  shone  that  bright,  penetrating 
spark  of  a  taper  by  which  Folly  lights,  in  woman,  the 
lamp  of  ambition. 

Her  forehead  was  high  —  her  whole  bearing  the  un 
conscious  one  of  a  born  lady. 

Romance  —  girlish,  idealized  romance  —  was  her's 
to-day.  A  good  intentioned,  but  thoughtless  romance 
—  and  therefore  a  weak  one.  And  worse  still,  one 
which,  coupled  with  ambition,  might  be  led  to  ruin. 

Down  through  the  tangled  box-planted  walks  she 
strolled,  swinging  her  dainty  hat  of  straw  and  old  lace 
in  her  hand;  on  through  the  small  gate  that  bound  the 
first  yard,  then  through  the  shaded  lawn,  unkept  now 
and  rank  with  weeds,  but  still  holding  the  old  trees 
which,  in  other  days,  looked  down  over  the  well  kept 
lawn  of  grass  beneath.  Now  gaunt  hogs  had  rooted  it 
up  and  the  weeds  had  taken  it,  and  the  limbs  of  the  old 
trees,  falling,  had  been  permitted  to  lie  as  they  fell. 

The  first  fence  was  down.  She  walked  across  the  road 
and  took  a  path  leading  through  a  cottonfield,  which, 
protected  on  all  sides  by  the  wood,  and  being  on  the 
elevated  plateau  on  which  the  residence  stood,  had  es 
caped  the  severer  frosts. 


THE  FLINT  AND  THE  COAL  69 

And  so  she  stopped  and  stood  amid  it,  waist  high. 

The  very  act  of  her  stopping  showed  the  romance 
of  her  nature. 

She  had  seen  the  fields  of  cotton  all  her  life,  but  she 
could  never  pass  through  one  in  bloom  and  in  fruit  — 
the  white  and  purple  blossoms,  mingled  with  the  green 
of  the  leaves  and  all  banked  over  billows  of  snowy  lint, 
—  that  she  did  not  stop,  thrilled  with  the  same  child 
hood  feeling  that  came  with  the  first  reading  of  the 
Arabian  Nights. 

She  had  seen  the  field  when  it  was  first  plowed,  in 
the  spring,  and  the  small  furrows  were  thrown  up  by  the 
little  turning  shovels.  Then,  down  the  entire  length 
of  the  ridge  the  cotton-planter  had  followed,  its  two 
little  wheels  straddling  the  row,  while  the  small  bull- 
tongue  in  front  opened  the  shallow  furrow  for  the  linty, 
furry,  white  seeds  to  fall  in  and  be  covered  immediately 
by  the  mold-board  behind.  She  had  seen  it  spring  up 
from  one  end  of  the  ridge  to  the  other,  like  peas,  then 
chopped  out  by  the  hoe,  the  plants  left  standing,  each 
the  width  of  the  hoe  apart.  Then  she  had  watched  it  all 
summer,  growing  under  the  Southern  sun,  throwing 
out  limb  above  limb  of  beautiful  delicate  leaves,  drawing 
their  life  and  sustenance  more  from  the  air  and  sunshine 
above  than  from  the  dark  soil  beneath.  Drawing  it 
from  the  air  and  sunshine  above,  and  therefore  cotton, 
silken,  snowy  cotton  —  with  the  warmth  of  the  sun  in 
the  skein  of  its  sheen  and  the  purity  of  heaven  in  the 
fleece  of  its  fold. 

Child   of   the   air   and   the   sky   and   sun;   therefore, 


70  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

cotton  —  and  not  corn,  which  draws  its  life  from  the 
clay  and  mud  and  decay  which  comes  from  below. 

She  had  seen  the  first  cream-white  bloom  come. 

She  had  found  it  one  sweet  day  in  July,  early  in  the 
morning,  on  the  tip  end  of  the  eldest  branch  of  the  cot 
ton  stalk  nearest  the  ground.  It  hung  like  the  flower 
of  the  cream-white,  pendulous  abutilon,  with  pollen  of 
yellow  stars  beaded  in  dew  and  throwing  off  a  rich,  deli 
cate,  aromatic  odor,  smelt  nowhere  on  earth  save  in  a 
cottonfield,  damp  with  early  dew  and  warmed  by  the  rays 
of  the  rising  sun.  Cream-white  it  was  in  the  morning, 
but  when  she  had  visited  it  again  at  nightfall,  it  hung 
purple  in  the  twilight. 

Then  had  she  plucked  it. 

Through  the  hot  month  of  July  she  had  watched  the 
boll  grow  and  expand,  until  in  August  the  lowest  and 
oldest  one  next  to  the  ground  burst,  and  shone  through 
the  pale  green  leaves  like  the  image  of  a  star  reflected 
in  waters  of  green.  And  every  morning  new  cream- 
white  blooms  formed  to  the  very  top,  only  to  turn  purple 
by  twilight,  while  beneath,  climbing  higher  and  higher 
as  the  days  went  by  and  the  cool  nights  came,  star  above 
star  of  cotton  arose  and  stood  twinkling  in  its  sky  of 
green  and  purple,  above  the  dank  manger  where,  in 
early  spring,  the  little  child-seed  had  lain. 

To-day,  touched  by  the  great  frost,  the  last  purple 
bloom  in  the  very  tip-top  seemed  to  look  up  yearningly 
and  plead  with  the  sun  for  one  more  day  of  life;  that 
it,  too,  might  add  in  time  its  snowy  tribute  to  the  bank 
of  white  which  rolled  entirely  across  the  field,  one  big 
billow  of  cotton. 


THE  FLINT  AND  THE  COAL  71 

And  in  the  midst  of  it  the  girl  stood  dreaming  and 
wondering. 

She  plucked  a  purple  blossom  and  pinned  it  to  her 
breast.  Then,  with  a  deep  sigh  of  saddened  longing 
—  that  this  should  be  the  last  —  she  walked  on,  daintily 
lifting  her  gown  to  avoid  the  damp  stars  of  cotton,  now 
fast  gathering  the  night  dew. 

Across  the  field,  a  vine  of  wild  grape  ran  over  the 
top  of  two  small  hackberry  trees,  forming  a  natural 
umbrella-shaped  arbor  above  two  big  moss-covered 
boulders  which  cropped  out  of  the  ground  beneath,  mak 
ing  two  natural  rustic  seats.  On  one  of  these  she  sat 
down.  Above  her  head  glowed  the  impenetrable  leaves 
of  the  grape-vine  and  the  hackberry,  and  through  them 
all  hung  the  small  purple  bunches  of  wild  grapes,  wait 
ing  for  the  frost  of  affliction  to  convert  into  sugar  the 
acid  of  their  souls. 

She  was  in  plain  view  of  Millwood,  not  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away,  and  in  the  glow  of  the  blazing  red  sunset, 
shining  through  its  broken  shutters  and  windows,  she 
could  see  Mammy  Maria  busy  about  their  dinner. 

She  looked  up  the  road  anxiously  —  then,  with  an 
impatient  gesture  she  took  the  cotton  bloom  from  her 
bosom  and  began  to  pluck  the  petals  apart,  one  by  one, 
saying  aloud: 

"  One,  I  love  —  two,  I  love  — 
Three,  I  love,  I  say. 
Four,  I  love  with  all  my  heart, 
And  five,  I  cast  away  — " 


7£  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

She  stopped  short  and  sighed  — "  O,  pshaw  !  that  was 
Harry ;  why  did  I  name  it  for  him  ?  " 

Again  she  looked  impatiently  up  the  road  and  then 
went  on: 

"  Six,  he  loves,  seven,  she  loves, 
Eight,  both  love  — " 

She  turned  quickly.  She  heard  the  gallop  of  a  sad 
dle  horse  coming.  The  rider  sprang  off,  tied  his  horse 
and  sat  on  the  rock  by  her  side. 

She  appeared  not  to  notice  him,  and  her  piqued  face 
was  turned  away  petulantly. 

It  was  a  handsome  boyish  face  that  looked  at  her  for 
a  moment  mischievously.  Then  he  seized  and  kissed  her 
despite  her  struggles. 

For  this  she  boxed  his  ears  soundly  and  sat  off  on  an 
other  rock. 

"  Harry  Travis,  you  can't  kiss  me  every  time  you 
want  to,  no  matter  if  we  are  engaged." 

It  was  a  strong  and  rather  a  masculine  voice,  and  it 
grated  on  one  slightly,  being  scarcely  expected  from  so 
beautiful  a  face.  In  it  was  power,  self-will,  ambition 
—  but  no  tenderness  nor  that  voice,  soft  and  low,  which 
"  is  an  excellent  thing  in  woman." 

He  laughed  banteringly. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  that  love  is  not  love  if  it  is  a 
minute  late?  Just  see  how  long  I  have  waited  here  for 
you?" 

She  sat  down  by  his  side  and  looked  fondly  up  into 
his  face,  flushed  with  exercise  and  smiling  half  cynically. 


THE  FLINT  AND  THE  COAL  73 

It  was  the  same  smile  seen  so  often  on  the  faee  of  Rich 
ard  Travis. 

"  Oh,  say,"  he  said,  dolefully,  "  but  don't  start  the 
hubby-come-to-taw-business  on  me  until  we  are  married. 
I  was  late  because  I  had  to  steal  the  Gov'ner's  new  mare 
—  isn't  she  a  beauty  ?  " 

"  Oh,  say,"  he  went  on,  "  but  that  is  a  good  one  —  he 
has  bought  her  for  somebody  he  is  stuck  on  —  can't 
say  who  —  and  I  heard  him  tell  Jim  not  to  let  anybody 
get  on  her  back. 

"  Well  "  -  he  laughed  — "  she  certainly  has  a  fine 
back.  I  stole  her  out  and  galloped  right  straight 
here. 

"  You  ought  to  own  her  " —  he  went  on  flippantly  — 
pinching  playfully  at  the  lobe  of  her  ear  — "  her  name 
is  Coquette." 

Then  he  tried  to  kiss  her  again. 

"  Harry  !  "  she  said,  pulling  away  — "  don't  now  — 
Mammy  Maria  said  I  was  never  to  —  let  you  kiss  me." 

"  Oh,"  he  said  with  some  iciness  — "  Listen  to  her  an' 
you  will  die  an  old  maid.  Besides,  I  am  not  engaged 
to  Mammy  Maria." 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  a  coquette?  "  she  asked,  sitting 
down  by  him  again. 

"  Worst  I  ever  saw  —  I  said  to  Nellie  just,  now  —  I 
mean  — ''  he  stopped  and  laughed. 
She  looked  at  him,  pained. 

'  Then  you've  stopped  to  see  Nellie,  and  that  is  why 
you  are  late?  I  do  not  care  what  she  says  —  I  am 
true  to  you,  Harry  —  because  —  because  I  love  you." 


74  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

He  was  feigning  anger,  and  tapping  his  boot  with  his 
riding  whip: 

"  Well  —  kiss  me  yourself  then  —  show  me  that 
Mammy  Maria  does  not  boss  my  wife." 

She  laughed  and  kissed  him.  He  received  it  with  in 
difference  and  some  haughtiness. 

Then  his  good  nature  returned  and  they  sat  and 
talked,  watching  the  sunset. 

"  Don't  you  think  my  dress  is  pretty  ?  "  she  asked 
after  a  while,  with  a  becoming  toss  of  her  head. 

"  Why,  I  hadn't  noticed  it  —  stunning  —  stunning. 
If  there  is  a  queen  on  earth  it  is  you  "  —  he  added. 

She  flushed  under  the  praise  and  was  silent. 

"  Harry  "  —  she  said  after  a  while,  "  I  hate  to  trou 
ble  you  now,  but  I  am  so  worried  about  things  at  home." 

He  looked  up  half  frowning. 

"  You  know  I  have  always  told  you  I  could  not  marry 
you  now.  I  would  not  burden  you  with  Papa." 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  answered  mechanically,  "  we're  both 
young  and  can  wait.  You  see,  really,  Pet  —  you  know 
I  am  dependent  at  present  on  the  Gov'nor  an' — 

"  I  understand  all  that,"  she  said  quickly  — "  but  "— 

"  A  long  engagement  will  only  test  our  love,"  he 
broke  in  with  a  show  of  dignity. 

"  You  do  not  understand,"  she  went  on.  "  Things 
have  got  so  bad  at  home  that  I  must  earn  something." 

He  frowned  and  tapped  his  foot  impatiently.  She 
sat  up  closer  to  him  and  put  her  hand  on  his.  He  did 
not  move  nor  even  return  the  pressure. 

"  And  so,  Harry  —  if  —  if  to  help  papa  —  and  Mill 
wood  is  sold  —  and  I  can  get  a  good  place  in  the  mill  — 


THE  FLINT  AND  THE  COAL  75 

one  off  by  myself  —  what  they  call  drawer-in  —  at  good 
wages, —  and,  if  only  for  a  little  while  I'd  work  there  — 
to  help  out,  you  know  —  what  would  you  think  ?  " 

He  sprang  up  from  his  seat  and  dropped  her  hand. 

"  Good  God,  Helen  Conway ,  are  you  crazy  ?  "  he  said 
brutally  — "  why,  I'd  never  speak  to  you  again.  Me  ? 
A  Travis  ?  —  and  marry  a  mill  girl  ?  " 

The  color  went  out  of  her  face.  She  looked  in  her 
shame  and  sorrow  toward  the  sunset,  where  a  cloud,  but 
ten  minutes  before,  had  stood  all  rosy  and  purple  with 
the  flush  of  the  sunbeams  behind  it. 

Now  the  beams  were  gone,  and  it  hung  white  and 
bloodless. 

In  the  crisis  of  our  lives  such  trifles  as  these  flash  over 
us.  In  the  greatness  of  other  things  —  often  turning 
points  in  our  life  —  Nature  sometimes  points  it  all  with 
a  metaphor. 

For  Nature  is  the  one  great  metaphoi.    \ 

Helen  knew  that  she  and  the  cloud  were  now  one. 

But  she  was  not  a  coward,  and  with  her  heart  nerved 
and  looking  him  calmly  in  the  face,  she  talked  on  and 
told  him  of  the  wretched  condition  of  affairs  at  Mill 
wood.  And  as  she  talked,  the  setting  sun  played  over 
her  own  cheeks,  touching  them  with  a  halo  of  such  ex 
quisite  colors  that  even  the  unpoetic  soul  of  Harry 
Travis  was  touched  by  the  beauty  of  it  all. 

And  to  any  one  but  Harry  Travis  the  proper  solu 
tion  would  have  been  plain.  Not  that  he  said  it  or  even 
meant  it  —  for  she  was  too  proud  a  spirit  even  to  have 
thought  of  it  —  there  is  much  that  a  man  should  know 
instinctively  that  a  woman  should  never  know  at  all. 


76          THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Harry  surprised  himself  by  the  patience  with  which 
he  listened  to  her.  In  him,  as  in  his  cousin  —  his  pat 
tern  —  ran  a  vein  of  tact  when  the  crisis  demanded, 
through  and  between  the  stratum  of  bold  sensuousness 
and  selfishness  which  made  up  the  basis  of  his  character. 

And  so  as  he  listened,  in  the  meanness  and  meagre- 
ness  of  his  soul,  he  kept  thinking,  "  I  will  let  her  down 
easy  —  no  need  for  a  scene." 

It  was  narrow  and  little,  but  it  was  all  that  could 
come  into  the  soul  of  his  narrowness. 

For  we  cannot  think  beyond  our  fountain  head,  nor 
can  we  even  dream  beyond  the  souls  of  the  two  things 
who  gave  us  birth.  There  are  men  born  in  this  age  of 
ripeness,  born  with  an  alphabet  in  their  mouths  and 
reared  in  the  regal  ways  of  learning,  who  can  neither 
read  nor  write.  And  yet  had  Shakespeare  been  born 
without  a  language,  he  would  have  carved  his  thoughts 
as  pictures  on  the  trees. 

Harry  Travis  was  born  as  so  many  others  are  —  not 
only  without  a  language,  but  without  a  soul  within  him 
upon  which  a  picture  might  be  drawn. 

And  so  it  kept  running  in  his  mind,  quietly,  cold 
bloodedly,  tactfully  down  the  narrow,  crooked,  slum- 
alleys  of  his  mind :  "  I  will  —  I  will  drop  her  —  now !  " 
She  ceased  —  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  and  her  face 
was  blanched  whiter  even  than  the  cloud. 

He  arose  quickly  and  glanced  at  the  setting  sun: 
"  Oh,  say,  but  I  must  get  the  Gov'nor's  mare  back.  Jim 
will  miss  her  at  feeding  time." 

There  was  a  laugh  on  his  lips  and  his  foot  was  already 
in  the  stirrup.  "  Sorry  to  be  in  such  a  hurry  just  now, 


THE  FLINT  AND  THE  COAL  7T 

too  —  because  there  is  so  much  I  want  to  say  to  you  on 
that  subject —  awful  sorry  — but  the  Gov'nor  will  raise 
Cain  if  he  knows  what  I've  done.  I'll  just  write  you  a 
long  letter  to-night  —  and  I'll  be  over,  maybe,  soon  — 
ta  —  ta  —  but  this  mare,  confound  her  —  see  how  she 
cuts  up  —  so  sorry  I  can't  stay  longer  —  but  I'll  write 
-  to-night," 

He  threw  her  a  kiss  as  he  rode  off. 
She  sat  dazed,   numbed,   with  the   shallowness  of  it 
all  —  the  shale  of  sham  which  did  not  even  conceal  the 
base  sub-stratum  of  deceit  below. 

Nothing  like  it  had  ever  come  into  her  life  before. 
She  dropped  down  behind  the  rock,  but  instead  of 
tears  there  came  steel.  In  it  all  she  could  only  say  with 
her  lips  white,  a  defiant  poise  of  her  splendid  head,  and 
with  a  flash  of  the  eyes  which  came  with  the  Conway 
aroused :  "  Oh,  and  I  kissed  him  —  and  —  and  —  I 
loved  him !  " 

She  sat  on  the  rock  again  and  looked  at  the  sunset. 
She  was  too  hurt  now  to  go  home  —  she  wished  to  be 
alone. 

She  was  a  strong  girl  —  mentally  —  and  with  a  deep 
nature ;  but  she  was  proud,  and  so  she  sat  and  crushed  it 
in  her  pride  and  strength,  though  to  do  it  shook  her  as 
the  leaves  were  now  being  shaken  by  the  breeze  which 
had  sprung  up  at  sunset. 

She  thought  she  could  conquer  —  that  she  had  con 
quered  —  then,  as  the  breeze  died  away,  and  the  leaves 
hung  still  and  limp  again,  her  pride  went  with  the  breeze 
and  she  fell  again  on  her  knees  by  the  big  rock,  fell  and 


78          THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

buried  her  face  there  in  the  cool  moss  and  cried :  "  Oh, 
and  I  loved  that  thing !  " 

Ten  minutes  later  she  sat  pale  and  smiling.  The 
Conway  pride  had  conquered,  but  it  was  a  dangerous 
conquest,  for  steel  and  tears  had  mingled  to  make  it. 

In  her  despair  she  even  plucked  another  cotton  bloom 
from  her  bosom  as  if  trying  to  force  herself  to  be  happy 
again  in  saying: 

"  One,  I  love  —  two,  I  love, 
Three,  I  love,  I  say  — " 

But  this  only  hurt  her,  because  she  remembered  that 
when  she  had  said  it  before  she  had  had  an  idol  which 
now  lay  shattered,  as  the  petals  of  the  cotton-blossom 
which  she  had  plucked  and  thrown  away. 

Then  the  breeze  sprang  up  again  and  with  it,  borne 
on  it,  came  the  click  —  click  —  click  of  a  hammer  tap 
ing  a  rock.  It  was  a  small  gladey  valley  through 
which  a  gulley  ran.  Boulders  cropped  out  here  and 
there,  and  haws,  red  and  white  elms,  and  sassafras  grew 
and  shaded  it. 

Down  in  the  gulch,  not  a  hundred  yards  from  her,  she 
saw  a  pair  of  broad  shoulders  overtopped  by  a  rusty 
summer  hat  —  the  worse  for  a  full  season's  wear. 
Around  the  shoulders  was  strung  a  leathern  satchel,  and 
she  could  see  that  the  person  beneath  the  hat  was  closely 
inspecting  the  rocks  he  chipped  off  and  put  into  the 
satchel.  Then  his  hammer  rang  out  again. 

She  sat  and  watched  him  and  listened  to  the  tap  of 
his  hammer  half  sadly  —  half  amused.  Harry  Travis 


THE  FLINT  AND  THE  COAL  79 

had  crushed  her  as  she  had  never  been  crushed  before  in 
her  life,  and  the  pride  in  a  woman  which  endureth  a 
fall  is  not  to  be  trifled  with  afterwards. 

She  grew  calmer  —  even  quiet.  The  old  spirit  re 
turned.  She  knew  that  she  had  never  been  as  beautiful 
in  her  life,  as  now  —  just  now  —  in  the  halo  of  the 
sunset  shining  on  her  hair  and  reflected  in  the  rare  old 
gown  she  wore. 

The  person  with  the  leathern  satchel  was  oblivious 
of  everything  but  his  work.  The  old  straw  hat  bobbed 
energetically  —  the  big  shoulders  nodded  steadily  be 
neath  it.  She  watched  him  silently  a  few  minutes  and 
then  she  called  out  pleasantly: 

"  You  do  seem  to  be  very  busy,  Clay ! " 

He  stopped  and  looked  up.  Then  he  took  off  his  hat 
and,  awkwardly  bowing,  wiped  his  brow,  broad,  calm 
and  self-reliant,  and  a  deliberate  smile  spread  over  his 
face.  Everything  he  did  was  deliberate.  The  smile 
began  in  the  large  friendly  mouth  and  spread  in  kin 
dred  waves  upward  until  it  flashed  out  from  his  kindly 
blue  eyes,  through  the  heavy  double-lens  glasses  that 
covered  them. 

Without  a  word  he  picked  up  the  last  rock  he  had 
broken  off  and  put  it  into  his  satchel.  Very  deliberate, 
too,  was  his  walk  up  the  hill  toward  the  grape  arbor, 
mopping  his  brow  as  he  came  along  —  a  brow  big  and 
full  of  cause  and  effect  and  of  quiet  deductions  and 
deliberate  conclusions.  His  coat  was  seedy,  his  trousers 
bagged  at  the  knees,  his  shoes  were  old,  and  there  were 
patches  on  them,  but  his  collar  and  linen  were  white  and 
very  much  starched,  and  his  awkward,  shambling  gait 


80  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

was  honest  to  the  last  footfall.  A  world  of  depth  and 
soul  was  in  his  strong,  fine  face,  lit  up  now  with  an 
honest,  humble  smile,  but,  at  rest,  full  of  quiet  dignity. 

He  shuffled  along  and  sat  down  in  a  big  brotherly  way 
by  the  girl's  side. 

She  sat  still,  looking  at  him  with  a  half  amused  smile 
on  her  lips. 

He  smiled  back  at  her  abstractedly.  She  could  see 
that  he  had  not  yet  really  seen  her.  He  was  looking 
thoughtfully  across  at  the  hill  beyond: 

"  It  puzzles  me,"  he  said  in  a  fine,  mellow  voice,  "  why 
I  should  find  this  rotten  limestone  cropping  out  here. 
Now,  in  the  blue  limestone  of  the  Niagara  period  I  was 
as  sure  of  finding  it  as  I  am  — : 

"  Of  not  finding  me  at  all,"-  -  it  came  queenly, 
haughtily  from  her. 

He  turned,  and  the  thick  lenses  of  his  glasses  were 
focused  on  her  —  a  radiant,  superb  being.  Then  there 
were  swept  away  all  his  abstractions  and  deductions,  and 
in  their  place  a  real  smile  —  a  lover's  smile  of  satisfac 
tion  looking  on  the  paradise  of  his  dreams. 

"  You  know  I  have  always  worshiped  you,"  he  said 
simply  and  reverently. 

She  moved  up  in  a  sisterly  way  to  him  and  looked  into 
his  face. 

"  Clay  —  Clay  —  but  you  must  not  —  I  have  told 
you  —  I  am  engaged." 

He  did  not  appear  to  hear  her.  Already  his  mind 
was  away  off  in  the  hills  where  his  eyes  were.  He  went 
on :  "  Now,  over  there  I  struck  a  stratum  of  rotten 
limestone  —  it's  a  curious  thing.  I  traced  that  vein  of 


THE  FLINT  AND  THE  COAL  81 

coal  from  Walker  County  — clear  through  the  carboni 
ferous  period,  and  it  is  bound  to  crop  out  somewhere  in 
this  altitude  —  bound  to  do  it." 

"  Now  it's  just  this  way,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand 
without  being  conscious  of  it  and  counting  off  the  pe 
riods  with  her  fingers.  "  Here  is  the  carboniferous, 
the  sub-carboniferous  — "  She  jerked  her  hand  away 
with  what  would  have  been  an  amused  laugh  except  that 
in  a  half  conscious  way  she  remembered  that  Harry  had 
held  her  hand  but  half  an  hour  ago;  and  it  ended  in  a 
frigid  shaft  feathered  with  a  smile  —  the  arrow  which 
came  from  the  bow  of  her  pretty  mouth. 

He  came  to  himself  with  a  boyish  laugh  and  a  blush 
that  made  Helen  look  at  him  again  and  watch  it  roll 
down  his  cheek  and  neck,  under  the  fine  white  skin 
there. 

Then  he  looked  at  her  closely  again  —  the  romantic 
face,  the  coil  of  brown  hair,  the  old  gown  of  rich  silk, 
the  old-fashioned  corsage  and  the  rich  old  gold  necklace 
around  her  throat. 

"  If  there's  a  queen  on  earth  —  it's  you,"  he  said 
simply. 

He  reddened  again,  and  to  divert  it  felt  in  his  satchel 
and  took  out  a  rock.  Then  he  looked  across  at  the  hills 
again : 

"  If  I  do  trace  up  that  vein  of  coal  and  the  iron  which 
is  needed  with  it  —  when  I  do  —  for  I  know  it  is  here 
as  well  as  Leverrier  knew  that  Neptune  was  in  our 
planetary  system  by  the  attraction  exerted  —  when  I 
do—" 

He  looked  at  her  again.     He  could  not  say  the  words. 
6 


82  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Real  love  has  ideas,  but  never  words.  It  feels,  but  can 
not  speak.  That  which  comes  out  of  the  mouth,  being 
words,  is  ever  a  poor  substitute  for  that  wrhich  comes 
from  the  heart  and  is  spirit. 

"  Clay,"  she  said,  "  you  keep  forgetting.     I  say  I  - 
I  am  —  was  —          She  stopped  confused. 

He  looked  hurt  for  a  moment  and  smiled  in  his  frank 
way:  "  I  know  it  is  here,"  he  said  holding  up  a  bit  of 
coal  — "  here,  by  the  million  tons,  and  it  is  mine  by 
right  of  birth  and  education  and  breeding.  It  is  my 
heritage  to  find  it.  One  day  Alabama  steel  will  outrank 
Pittsburgh.  Oh,  to  put  my  name  there  as  the  dis 
coverer  !  " 

"  Then  you  "  -  he  turned  and  said  it  fondly  —  rever 
ently  —  "  you  should  be  mine  by  right  of  —  of  love." 

She  sighed. 

"  Clay  —  I  am  sorry  for  you.  I  can  never  love  you 
that  way.  You  have  told  me  that,  since  —  oh,  since  I 
can  remember,  and  I  have  always  told  you  —  you  know 
we  are  cousins,  anyway  —  second  cousins."  She  shook 
her  head. 

"  Under  the  heart  of  the  flinty  hill  lies  the  coal,"  he 
said  simply. 

But  she  did  not  understand  him.  She  had  looked 
down  and  seen  Harry's  foot-track  on  the  moss. 

And  so  they  sat  until  the  first  star  arose  and  shim 
mered  through  the  blue  mist  which  lay  around  the  far 
off  purpling  hill  tops.  Then  there  was  the  clang  of  a 
dinner  bell. 

"  It  is  Mammy  Maria,"  she  said  — "  I  must  go.     No 


THE  FLINT  AND  THE  COAL  85 

—  you  must  not  walk  home  with  me.  I'd  rather  be 
alone." 

She  did  not  intend  it,  but  it  was  brutal  to  have  said  it 
that  way  —  to  the  sensitive  heart  it  went  to.  He  looked 
hurt  for  a  moment  and  then  tried  to  smile  in  a  weak 
way.  Then  he  raised  his  hat  gallantly,  turned  and  went 
off  down  the  gulch. 

Helen  stood  looking  for  the  last  time  on  the  pretty 
arbor.  Here  she  had  lost  her  heart  —  her  life.  She 
fell  on  the  moss  again  and  kissed  the  stone.  Then  she 
walked  home  —  in  tears. 


CHAPTER  VII 

HILLIARD    WATTS 

IT  is  good  for  the  world  now  and  then  to  go  back 
to  first  principles  in  religion.  It  would  be  better 
for  it  never  to  get  away  from  them ;  but,  since  it 
has  that  way  of  doing  —  of  breeding  away  and  break 
ing  away  from  the  innate  good  —  it  is  well  that  a  man 
should  be  born  in  any  age  with  the  faith  of  Abraham. 

It  matters  not  from  what  source  such  a  man  may 
spring.  And  he  need  have  no  known  pedigree  at  all, 
except  an  honest  ancestry  behind  him. 

Such  a  man  was  Hilliard  Watts,  the  Cottontown 
preacher. 

Sprung  from  the  common  people  of  the  South,  he 
was  a  most  uncommon  man,  in  that  he  had  an  absolute 
faith  in  God  and  His  justice,  and  an  absolute  belief  that 
some  redeeming  goodness  lay  in  every  human  being, 
however  depraved  he  may  seem  to  the  world.  And  so 
firm  was  his  faith,  so  simple  his  religion  —  so  contrary 
to  the  worldliness  of  the  religion  of  his  day, —  that  the 
very  practice  of  it  made  him  an  uncommon  man. 

As  the  overseer  of  General  Jeremiah  Travis's  large 
estate  before  the  war,  he  proved  by  his  success  that  even 
slaves  work  better  for  kindness.  Of  infinite  good  sense, 
but  little  education,  he  had  a  mind  that  went  to  the 
heart  of  things,  and  years  ago  the  fame  of  his  homely 

84 


HILLIARD  WATTS  85 

but  pithy  sayings  stuck  in  the  community.  In  connec 
tion  with  kindness  to  his  negroes  one  of  his  sayings  was, 
"  Oh,  kindness  can't  be  classified  —  it  takes  in  the  whole 
world  or  nothin'." 

When  General  Travis  got  into  dire  financial  straits 
once,  he  sent  for  his  overseer,  and  advised  with  him  as 
to  the  expediency  of  giving  up.  The  overseer,  who 
knew  the  world  and  its  ways  with  all  the  good  judgment 
of  his  nature,  dryly  remarked :  "  That'll  never  do. 
Never  let  the  world  know  you've  quit ;  an'  let  the  under 
taker  that  buries  you  be  the  fust  man  to  find  out  you're 
busted." 

General  Travis  laughed,  and  that  season  one  of  his 
horses  won  the  Tennessee  Valley  Futurity,  worth  thirty- 
thousand  dollars  —  and  the  splendid  estate  was  again 
free  from  debt. 

There  was  not  a  negro  on  the  place  who  did  not  love 
the  overseer,  not  one  who  did  not  carry  that  love  to  the 
extent  of  doing  his  best  to  please  him.  He  had  never 
been  known  to  punish  one,  and  yet  the  work  done  by  the 
Travis  hands  was  proverbial. 

Among  his  duties  as  overseer,  the  entire  charge  of  the 
Westmore  stable  of  thoroughbreds  fell  to  his  care.  This 
was  as  much  from  love  as  choice,  for  never  was  a  man 
born  with  more  innate  love  of  all  dumb  creatures  than 
the  preacher-overseer. 

"  I've  allers  contended  that  a  man  could  love  God  an' 
raise  horses,  too,"  he  would  say;  and  it  was  ludicrous 
to  see  him  when  he  went  off  to  the  races,  filling  the 
tent  trunk  with  religious  tracts,  which,  after  the  races, 
he  would  distribute  to  all  who  would  read  them.  And 


86  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

when  night  came  he  would  regularly  hold  prayers  in  his 
tent — prayer-meetings  in  which  his  auditors  were  touts, 
stable-boys  and  gamblers.  And  woe  to  the  stable-boy 
who  uttered  an  oath  in  his  presence  or  dared  to  strike 
or  maltreat  any  of  his  horses! 

He    preached    constantly    against    gambling    on    the 

races.     "  That's  the  Devil's  end  of  it,"  he  would  say  — 

*  The  Almighty  lets  us  raise  good  horses  as  a  benefit 

to  mankind,  an'  the  best  one  wins  the  purse.     It  was  the 

Devil's  idea  that  turned  'em  into  gambling  machines." 

No  one  ever  doubted  the  honesty  of  his  races.  When 
the  Travis  horses  ran,  the  racing  world  knew  they  ran 
for  blood. 

Physically,  he  had  been  an  athlete  —  a  giant,  and 
unconscious  of  his  strength.  Incidentally,  he  had  taken 
to  wrestling  when  a  boy,  and  as  a  man  his  fame  as  a 
wrestler  was  coincident  with  the  Tennessee  Valley.  It 
was  a  manly  sport  which  gave  him  great  pleasure,  just 
as  would  the  physical  development  of  one  of  his  race 
horses.  Had  he  lived  in  the  early  days  of  Greece,  he 
would  have  won  in  the  Olympian  wrestling  match. 

There  was  in  Hilliard  Watts  a  trait  which  is  one  of  the 
most  pronounced  of  his  type  of  folks, —  a  sturdy,  honest 
humor.  Humor,  but  of  the  Cromwell  type  —  and 
withal,  a  kind  that  went  with  praying  and  fighting. 
Possessed,  naturally,  of  a  strong  mind  of  great  good 
sense,  he  had  learned  to  read  and  write  by  studying  the 
Bible  —  the  only  book  he  had  ever  read  through  and 
through  and  which  he  seemed  to  know  by  heart.  He 
was  earnest  and  honest  in  all  things,  but  in  his  earnest- 
and  strong  fight  for  right  living  there  was  the  twin- 


HILLIARD  WATTS  87 

kle  of  humor.  Life,  with  him,  was  a  serious  fight,  but 
ever  through  the  smoke  of  its  battle  there  gleamed  the 
bright  sun  of  a  kindly  humor. 

The  overseer's  home  was  a  double  log  hut  on  the  side 
of  the  mountain.  His  plantation,  he  called  it, —  for 
having  been  General  Travis's  overseer,  he  could  not 
imagine  any  farm  being  less  than  a  plantation. 

It  consisted  of  forty  acres  of  flinty  land  on  the 
mountain  side  — "  too  po'  to  sprout  cow-peas,"  as  his 
old  wife  would  always  add  — "  but  hits  pow'ful  for 
blackberries,  an'  if  we  can  just  live  till  blackberry  time 
comes  we  can  take  keer  ourselves." 

Mrs.  Watts  had  not  a  lazy  bone  in  her  body.  Her 
religion  was  work :  "  Hit's  nature's  remedy,"  she  would 
add  — "  wuck  and  five  draps  o'  turpentine  if  you're 
feehV  po'ly." 

She  despised  her  husband's  ways  and  thought  little 
of  his  religion.  Her  tongue  was  frightful  —  her  tem 
per  worse.  Her  mission  on  earth  —  aside  from  work  — 
work  —  work  —  was  to  see  that  too  much  peace  and 
good  will  did  not  abide  long  in  the  same  place. 

Elder  Butts,  the  Hard-Shell  preacher,  used  to  say: 
"  She  can  go  to  the  full  of  the  moon  mighty  nigh  every 
month  'thout  raisin'  a  row,  if  hard  pressed  for  time  an' 
she  thinks  everybody  else  around  her  is  miser'ble.  But 
if  things  look  too  peaceful  and  happy,  she'll  raise  sand 
in  the  last  quarter  or  bust.  The  Bishop's  a  good  man, 
but  if  he  ever  gits  to  heaven,  the  bigges'  diamon'  in  his 
crown'll  be  because  he's  lived  with  that  old  'oman  an' 
ain't  committed  murder.  I  don't  believe  in  law  suits, 


88          THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

but  if  he  ain't  got  a  damage  case  agin  the  preacher  that 
married  him,  then  I'm  wrong." 

But  no  one  ever  heard  the  old  man  use  harsher  lan 
guage  in  speaking  of  her  than  to  remark  that  she  was 
"  a  female  Jineral  —  that's  what,  Tabitha  is." 

Perhaps  she  was,  and  but  for  her  the  Bishop  and  his 
household  had  starved  long  ago. 

"  Furagin'  is  her  strong  point  "-  -  he  would  always 
add  — "  she'd  made  Albert  Sydney  Johnston  a  great 
chief  of  commissary." 

And  there  was  not  an  herb  of  any  value  that  Mrs. 
Watts  did  not  know  all  about.  Any  fair  day  she 
might  be  seen  on  the  mountain  side  plucking  edibles. 
Ginseng  was  her  money  crop,  and  every  spring  she 
would  daily  go  into  the  mountain  forests  and  come  back 
with  enough  of  its  roots  to  help  them  out  in  the  winter's 
pinch. 

"  Now,  if  anybody'll  study  Nature,"  she  would  say, 
"  they'll  see  she  never  cal'c'lated  to  fetch  us  here  'ithout 
makin'  'lowance  fur  to  feed  us.  The  fus'  thing  that 
comes  up  is  dandelions  —  an'  I  don't  want  to  stick  my 
tooth  in  anything  that's  better  than  dandelion  greens 
biled  with  hog-jowl.  I  like  a  biled  dinner  any  way. 
Sas'fras  tea  comes  mighty  handy  with  dandelions  in  the 
spring,  an'  them  two'll  carry  us  through  April.  Then 
comes  wild  lettice  an'  tansy-tea  —  that's  fur  May. 
Blackberries  is  good  fur  June  an'  the  ja.m'll  take  us 
through  winter  if  Bullrun  and  Appomattox  ain'  too 
healthy.  In  the  summer  we  can  live  on  garden  truck, 
an'  in  the  fall  there  is  wild  reddishes  an'  water-cresses 
an'  spatterdock,  an'  nuts  an'  pertatoes  come  in  mighty 


MILLIARD  WATTS  89 

handy  fur  winter  wuck.  Why,  I  was  born  wuckin' — 
when  I  was  a  gal  I  cooked,  washed  and  done  house-work 
for  a  family  of  ten,  an'  then  had  time  to  spin  ten  hanks 
o'  yarn  a  day." 

"  Now  there's  the  old  man  - —  he's  too  lazy  to  wuck  — 
he's  like  all  parsons,  he'd  rather  preach  aroun'  all  his 
life  on  a  promise  of  heaven  than  to  wuck  on  earth  for 
cash !" 

"  How  did  I  ever  come  to  marry  Hilliard  Watts  ? 
Wai,  he  wa'n't  that  triflin'  when  I  married  him.  He 
didn't  have  so  much  religiun  then.  But  I've  allers 
noticed  a  man's  heredity  for  no-countness  craps  out 
after  he's  married.  Lookin'  back  now  I  reckin'  I  mar 
ried  him  jes'  to  res'  myself.  When  I'm  wuckin'  an'  git 
tired,  I  watches  Hilliard  doin'  nothin'  awhile  an'  it  hopes 
me  pow'ful." 

"  He  gits  so  busy  at  it  an'  seems  so  contented  an' 
happy." 

Besides  his  wife  there  were  five  grandchildren  in  his 
family  —  children  of  the  old  man's  son  by  his  second 
wife.  "  Their  father  tuck  after  his  stepmother,"  he 
would  explain  regretfully,  "  an'  wucked  hisself  to  death 
in  the  cotton  factory.  The  dust  an'  lint  give  him  con 
sumption.  He  was  the  only  man  I  ever  seed  that  tuck 
after  his  stepmother  " —  he  added  sadly. 

An  old  soldier  never  gets  over  the  war.  It  has  left  a 
nervous  shock  in  his  make-up  —  a  memory  in  all  his 
after  life  which  takes  precedence  over  all  other 
things.  The  old  man  had  the  naming  of  the  grand 
children,  and  he  named  them  after  the  battles  of  the 
Civil  war.  Bullrun  and  Seven  Days  were  the  boys. 


90  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Atlanta,  Appomattox  and  Shiloh  were  the  girls.  His 
apology  for  Shiloh  was :  "  You  see  I  thout  I'd  name 
the  last  one  Appomattox.  Then  came  a  little  one  befo' 
her  mammy  died,  so  weak  an'  pitiful  I  named  her  Shi 
loh." 

It  was  the  boast  of  their  grandmother  —  that  these 
children  —  even  little  Shiloh  —  aged  seven  —  worked 
from  ten  to  twelve  hours  every  day  in  the  cotton  factory, 
rising  before  day  and  working  often  into  the  night,  with 
forty  minutes  at  noon  for  lunch. 

They  had  not  had  a  holiday  since  Christmas,  and  on 
the  last  anniversary  of  that  day  they  had  worked  until 
ten  o'clock,  making  up  for  lost  time.  Their  pay  was 
twenty-five  cents  a  day  —  except  Shiloh,  who  received 
fifteen. 

"  But  I'll  soon  be  worth  mo',  pap,"  she  would  say  as 
she  crawled  up  into  the  old  man's  lap  —  her  usual  place 
when  she  had  eaten  her  supper  and  wanted  to  rest. 
"  An  you  know  what  I'm  gwine  do  with  my  other  nickel 
every  day  ?  I'm  gwine  give  it  to  the  TDO'  people  of  Indy 
an'  China  you  preaches  about." 

And  thus  she  would  prattle  —  too  young  to  know 
that,  through  the  cupidity  of  white  men,  in  this  —  the 
land  of  freedom  and  progress  —  she  —  this  blue-eyed, 
white-skinned  child  of  the  Saxon  race,  was  making  the 
same  wages  as  the  Indian  sepoy  and  the  Chinese  coolie. 
It  was  Saturday  night  and  after  the  old  man  had  put 
Shiloh  to  bed,  he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  across  the 
mountain  to  Westmoreland. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  old  lady  — "  he's  gwine  over  to  Miss 
Alice's  to  git  his  Sunday  School  less'n.  An'  I'd  like  to 


HILLIARD  WATTS  91 

know  what  good  Sunday  school  less'ns  '11  do  any  body. 
If  folks'd  git  in  the  habit  of  wuckin'  mo'  an'  prayin' 
less,  the  worl'ud  be  better  off,  an'  they'd  really  have 
somethin'  to  be  thankful  fur  when  Sunday  comes,  'stid 
of  livin'  frum  han'  to  mouth  an'  trustin'  in  some  un 
known  God  to  cram  feed  in  you'  crops." 

Hardened  by  poverty,  work,  and  misfortune,  she  was 
the  soul  of  pessimism. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WESTMORELAND 

FROM  The  Gaffs  to  Westmoreland,  the  home  of 
Alice  Westmore,  was  barely  two  miles  up  the 
level  white  pike. 

Jim  sat  in  the  buggy  at  The  Gaffs  holding  the  horses 
while  Richard  Travis,  having  eaten  his  supper,  was 
lighting  a  cigar  and  drawing  on  his  overcoat,  prepara 
tory  to  riding  over  to  Westmoreland. 

The  trotters  stood  at  the  door  tossing  their  heads  and 
eager  to  be  off.  They  were  cherry  bays  and  so  much 
alike  that  even  Jim  sometimes  got  them  mixed.  They 
were  clean-limbed  and  racy  looking,  with  flanks  well 
drawn  up,  but  with  a  broad  bunch  of  powerful  muscles 
which  rolled  from  hip  to  back,  making  a  sturdy  back 
for  the  splendid  full  tails  which  almost  touched  the 
ground.  In  front  they  stood  up  straight,  deep-chested, 
with  clean  bony  heads,  large  luminous  eyes  and  long 
slender  ears,  tapering  into  a  point  as  velvety  and  soft 
as  the  tendril-bud  on  the  tip  of  a  Virginia  creeper. 

They  stood  shifting  the  bits  nervously.  The  night 
air  was  cool  and  they  wanted  to  go. 

Travis  came  out  and  sprang  from  the  porch  to  the 
buggy  seat  with  the  quick,  sure  footing  of  an  athlete. 
Jim  sat  on  the  offside  and  passed  him  the  lines  just  as 
he  sang  cheerily  out: 


WESTMORELAND  93 

"  Heigh-ho  —  my  homes  —  go !  " 

The  two  mares  bounded  away  so  quickly  and  keenly 
that  the  near  mare  struck  her  quarters  and  jumped  up 
into  the  air,  running.  Her  off  mate  settled  to  work, 
trotting  as  steadily  as  a  bolting  Caribou,  but  pulling 
viciously. 

Travis  twisted  the  near  bit  with  a  deft  turn  of  his 
left  wrist,  and  as  the  two  mares  settled  to  their  strides 
there  was  but  one  stroke  from  their  shoes,  so  evenly  and 
in  unison  did  they  trot.  Down  the  level  road  they  flew, 
Travis  sitting  gracefully  upright  and  holding  the  lines 
in  that  sure,  yet  careless  way  which  comes  to  the  expert 
driver  with  power  in  his  arms. 

"  How  many  times  must  I  tell  you,  Jim,"  he  said  at 
last  rather  gruffly  • — "  never  to  bring  them  out,  even  for 
the  road,  without  their  boots?  Didn't  you  see  Lizette 
grab  her  quarters  and  fly  up  just  now?  " 

Jim  was  duly  penitent. 

Travis  let  them  out  a  link.  They  flew  down  a  soft, 
cool  graveled  stretch.  He  drew  them  in  at  the  sound 
of  an  ominous  click.  It  came  from  Sadie  B. 

"  Sadie  B.'s  forging  again.  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  have 
the  blacksmith  move  her  hind  shoes  back  a  little?  " 

"  I  did,  sir,"  said  Jim. 

"  You've  got  no  weight  on  her  front  feet,  then,"  said 
Travis  critically. 

"  Not  to-night,  sir  —  I  took  off  the  two  ounces  think 
ing  you'd  not  speed  them  to-night,  sir." 

"  You  never  know  when  I'm  going  to  speed  them. 
The  night  is  as  good  as  the  day  when  I  want  a  tonic." 

They  had  reached  the  big  i>tone  posts  which  marked 


94  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

the  boundary  of  Westmoreland.  A  little  farther  on  the 
mares  wheeled  into  the  gate,  for  it  was  open  and  lay, 
half  on  the  ground,  hanging  by  one  hinge.  It  had  not 
been  painted  for  years.  The  driveway,  too,  had  been 
neglected.  The  old  home,  beautiful  even  in  its  decay, 
sat  in  a  fine  beech  grove  on  the  slope  of  a  hill.  A  wide 
veranda,  with  marble  flag-stones  as  a  base,  ran  across 
the  front.  Eight  Corinthian  pillars  sentineled  it,  rest 
ing  on  a  marble  base  which  seemed  to  spring  up  out  of 
the  flag-stones  themselves,  and  towering  to  the  project 
ing  entablature  above. 

On  one  side  an  ell  could  be  seen,  covered  with  ivy. 
On  the  other  the  roof  of  a  hot-house,  with  the  glass 
broken  out. 

It  touched  even  Richard  Travis  —  this  decay.  He 
had  known  the  place  in  the  days  of  its  glory  before  its 
proprietor,  Colonel  Theodore  Westmore,  broken  by  the 
war,  in  spirit  and  in  pocket^  had  sent  a  bullet  into  his 
brain  and  ended  the  bitter  fight  with  debt.  Since  then, 
no  one  but  the  widow  and  her  daughter  knew  what  the 
fight  had  been,  for  Clay  Westmore,  the  brother,  was  but 
a  boy  and  in  college  at  the  time.  He  had  graduated 
only  a  few  months  before,  and  was  now  at  home, 
wrapped  up,  as  Richard  Travis  had  heard,  in  what  to 
him  was  a  visionary  scheme  of  some  sort  for  discovering 
a  large  area  of  coal  and  iron  thereabouts.  He  had 
heard,  too,  that  the  young  man  had  taken  hold  of  what 
had  been  left,  and  that  often  he  had  been  seen  following 
the  plough  himself. 

Travis  drove  through  the  driveway  —  then  he  pulled 


WESTMORELAND  95 

up   the  mares  very   gently,  got  out  and   felt  of  their 
flanks. 

"  Take  them  to  the  barn  and  rub  them  off,"  he  said, 
"  while  you  wait.  And  for  a  half  hour  bandage  their 
hind  legs  —  I  don't  want  any  wind  puffs  from  road 
work." 

He  started  into  the  house.  Then  he  turned  and  said: 
"  Be  here  at  the  door,  Jim,  by  ten  o'clock,  sharp.  I 
shall  make  another  call  after  this.  Mind  you  now,  ten 
o'clock,  sharp." 

At  the  library  he  knocked  and  walked  in. 

Mrs.  Westmore  sat  by  the  fire.  She  was  a  small, 
daintily-made  woman,  and  beautiful  even  at  fifty-five. 
She  had  keen,  black  eyes  and  nervous,  flighty  ways.  A 
smile,  half  cynical,  half  inviting,  lit  up  continuously 
her  face. 

"  Richard?"  she  said,  rising  and  taking  his  hand. 

"  Cousin  Alethea  —  I  thought  you  were  Alice  and  I 
was  going  to  surprise  her." 

Mrs.  Westmore  laughed  her  metallic  little  laugh. 
It  was  habit.  She  intended  it  to  be  reassuring,  but 
too  much  of  it  made  one  nervous.  It  was  the  laugh 
without  the  soul  in  it  —  the  eye  open  and  lighted,  but 
dead.  It  was  a  Damascus  blade  falling  from  the 
stricken  arm  to  the  stone  pavement  and  not  against  the 
ringing  steel  of  an  opponent. 

"  You  will  guess,  of  course,  where  she  is,"  she  said 
after  they  were  seated. 

"No?"  from  Travis. 

"  Getting  their  Sunda}'  School  lesson  —  she,  Uncle 
Bisco,  and  the  Bishop." 


96  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Travis  frowned  and  gave  a  nervous  twitch  of  his 
shoulders  as  he  turned  around  to  find  himself  a  chair. 

"  No  one  knows  just  how  we  feel  towards  Uncle  Bisco 
and  his  wife,"  went  on  Mrs.  Westmore  in  half  apology 
— "  she  has  been  with  us  so  long  and  is  now  so  old  and 
helpless  since  they  were  freed;  their  children  have  all 
left  them  —  gone  —  no  one  knows  where.  And  so  Un 
cle  Bisco  and  Aunt  Charity  are  as  helpless  as  babes,  and 
but  for  Alice  they  would  suffer  greatly." 

A  sudden  impulse  seized  Travis :  "  Let  us  go  and 
peep  in  on  them.  We  shall  have  a  good  joke  on  Her 
Majesty." 

Mrs.  Westmore  laughed,  and  they  slipped  quietly  out 
to  Uncle  Bisco's  cabin.  Down  a  shrubbery-lined  walk 
they  went  —  then  through  the  woods  across  a  field.  It 
was  a  long  walk,  but  the  path  was  firm  and  good,  and 
the  moon  lit  it  up.  They  came  to  the  little  cabin  at 
last,  in  the  edge  of  another  wood.  Then  they  slipped 
around  and  peeped  in  the  window. 

A  small  kerosene  lamp  sat  on  a  table  lighting  up  a 
room  scrupulously  clean. 

Uncle  Bisco  was  very  old.  His  head  was,  in  truth, 
a  cotton  plant  full  open.  His  face  was  intelligent, 
grave  —  such  a  face  as  Howard  Weeden  only  could 
draw  from  memory.  He  had  finished  his  supper,  and 
from  the  remnants  left  on  the  plate  it  was  plain  that 
Alice  Westmore  had  prepared  for  the  old  man  dainties 
which  she,  herself,  could  not  afford  to  indulge  in. 

By  him  sat  his  old  wife,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the 
fireplace  was  the  old  overseer,  his  head  also  white,  his 
face  strong  and  thoughtful.  He  was  clean  shaven, 


WESTMORELAND  97 

save  a  patch  of  short  white  chin-whiskers,  and  his  big 
straight  nose  had  a  slight  hook  of  shrewdness  in  it. 

Alice  Westmore  was  reading  the  chapter  —  her  voice 
added  to  it  an  hundred  fold :  "  Let  not  your  heart  be 
troubled.  ...  Ye  believe  in  God,  believe  also  in 
me.  ...  In  my  Father's  house  are  many  man 
sions  ...  ! " 

The  lamplight  fell  on  her  hair.  It  was  brown  where 
the  light  flashed  over  it,  and  lay  in  rippling  waves 
around  her  temples  in  a  splendid  coil  down  the  arch  of 
her  neck,  and  shining  in  strong  contrast  through  the 
gauzy  dark  sheen  of  her  black  gown.  But  where  the 
light  fell,  there  was  that  suspicion  of  red  which  the  last 
faint  tendril  a  dying  sunbeam  throws  out  in  a  parting 
clutch  at  the  bosom  of  a  cloud. 

It  gave  one  a  feeling  of  the  benediction  of  twilight. 
And  when  she  looked  up,  her  eyes  were  the  blessings 
poured  out  —  luminous,  helpful,  uplifting,  restful, — 
certain  of  life  and  immortality,  full  of  all  that  which  one 
sees  not,  when  awake,  but  only  when  in  the  borderland 
of  sleep,  and  memory,  unleashed,  tracks  back  on  the  trail 
of  sweet  days  which  once  were. 

They  spake  indeed  always  thus :  "  Let  not  your 
heart  be  troubled.  .  .  .'  Peace,  be  still." 

Her  face  did  not  seem  to  be  a  separate  thing  —  apart 
• —  as  with  most  women.  For  there  are  women  whose 
hair  is  one  thing  and  whose  face  is  another.  The  hair 
is  beautiful,  pure,  refined.  The  face  beautiful,  merely. 
The  hair  decorous,  quiet,  unadorned  and  debauched  not 
by  powder  and  paint,  stands  aloof  as  Desdemona,  Ophe 
lia  or  Rosalind.  The  face,  brazen,  with  a  sharp- 


98  THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

tongued, ,  vulgar  queen  of  a  thing  in  its  center,  on  a 
throne,  surrounded  by  perfumed  nymphs,  under  the 
sensual  glare  of  two  rose-colored  lamps,  sits  and  holds  a 
Du  Barry  court. 

They  are  neighbors,  but  not  friends,  and  they  live  in 
the  same  sphere,  held  together  only  by  the  law  of  grav 
ity  which  holds  to  one  spot  of  earth  the  rose  and  the  rag 
wort.  And  the  hair,  like  the  rose,  in  all  the  purity  of 
its  own  rich  sweetness,  all  the  naturalness  of  its  soul,  sits 
and  looks  down  upon  the  face  as  a  queen  would  over  the 
painted  yellow  thing  thrust  by  the  law  of  life  into  her 
presence. 

But  the  face  of  Alice  Westmore  was  companion  to  her 
hair.  The  firelight  fell  on  it;  and  while  the  glow  from 
the  lamp  fell  on  her  hair  in  sweet  twilight  shadows  of 
good  night,  the  rosy,  purple  beams  of  the  cheerful  fire 
light  lit  up  her  face  with  the  sweet  glory  of  a  perpetual 
good  morning. 

Travis  stood  looking  at  her  forgetful  of  all  else.  His 
lips  were  firmly  set,  as  of  a  strong  mind  looking  on  its 
life-dream,  the  quarry  of  his  hunter-soul  all  but  in  his 
grasp.  Flashes  of  hope  and  little  twists  of  fear  were 
there;  then,  as  he  looked  again,  she  raised,  half  timidly, 
her  face  as  a  Madonna  asking  for  a  blessing;  and 
around  his,  crept  in  the  smile  which  told  of  hope  long 
deferred. 

Selfish,  impure,  ambitious,  forceful  and  masterful  as 
he  was,  he  stood  hopeless  and  hungry-hearted  before 
this  pure  woman.  She  had  been  the  dream  of  his  life  — 
all  times  —  always  —  since  he  could  remember. 

To  own  her  —  to  win  her ! 


WESTMORELAND  99 

As  he  looked  up,  the  hardness  of  his  fo.ce  attracted 
even  Mrs.  Westmore,  smiling  by  his  side  at  the  scene 
before  her.  She  looked  up  at  Travis,  but  when  she  saw 
his  face  the  smile  went  out  of  hers.  It  changed  to  fear. 

All  the  other  passions  in  his  face  had  settled  into  one 
cruel  cynical  smile  around  his  mouth  —  a  smile  of  win 
ning  or  of  death. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  feared  Richard 
Travis. 

.  "  I  must  go  now,"  said  Alice  Westmore  to  the  old 
men  — "  but  I'll  sing  you  a  verse  or  two." 

The  overseer  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  Uncle  Bisco 
stooped  forward,  his  chin  resting  on  his  hickory  staff. 

And  then  like  the  clear  notes  of  a  spring,  dripping 
drop  by  drop  with  a  lengthening  cadence  into  the  cov 
ered  pool  of  a  rock-lined  basin,  came  a  simple  Sunday 
School  song  the  two  old  men  loved  so  well. 

There  were  tears  in  the  old  negro's  eyes  when  she  had 
finished.  Then  he  sobbed  like  a  child. 

Alice  Westmore  arose  to  go. 

"  Now,  Bishop  —  she  smiled  at  the  overseer  — 
"  don't  keep  Uncle  Bisco  up  all  night  talking  about  the 
war,  and  if  you  don't  come  by  the  house  and  chat  with 
mamma  and  me  awhile,  we'll  be  jealous." 

The  overseer  looked  up :  "  Miss  Alice  —  I'm  an  ole 
man  an'  we  ole  men  all  dream  dreams  when  night  comes. 
Moods  come  over  us  and,  look  where  we  will,  it  all  leads 
back  to  the  sweet  paths  of  the  past.  To-day  —  all  day 
—  my  mind  has  been  on  " —  he  stopped,  afraid  to  pro 
nounce  the  word  and  hunting  around  in  the  scanty  lex 
icon  of  his  mind  for  some  phase  of  speech,  some  word 


100         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

even  that  might  not  awaken  in  Alice  Westmore  mem 
ories  of  the  past. 

Richard  Travis  had  an  intuition  of  things  as  nat 
urally  as  an  eagle  has  the  homing  instinct,  however 
high  in  air  and  beyond  all  earth's  boundaries  he  flies. 
In  this  instance  Mrs.  Westmore  also  had  it,  for  she 
looked  up  quickly  at  the  man  beside  her.  All  the  other 
emotions  had  vanished  from  his  face  save  the  one  appeal 
ing  look  which  said :  "  Come,  let  us  go  —  we  have 
heard  enough." 

Then  they  slipped  back  into  the  house. 

Alice  Westmore  had  stopped,  smiling  back  from  the 
doorway. 

"  On  what,  Bishop?  "  she  finally  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Jus'  the  dream  of  an  ole  man," 
he  said.  "  Don't  bother  about  us  two  ole  men.  I'll  be 
'long  presently." 

"  Bisco,"  said  the  old  preacher  after  a  while,  "  come 
mighty  nigh  makin'  a  break  then  —  but  I've  been 
thinkin'  of  Cap'n  Tom  all  day.  I  can't  throw  it  off." 

Bisco  shook  his  head  solemnly.  "  So  have  I  —  so 
have  I.  The  older  I  gits,  the  mo'  I  miss  Marse  Tom." 

"  I  don't  like  the  way  things  are  goin' —  in  yon 
der  " —  and  the  preacher  nodded  his  head  toward  the 
house. 

Uncle  Bisco  looked  cautiously  around  to  see  that  no 
one  was  near :  "  He's  doin'  his  bes' —  the  only  thing  is 
whether  she  can  forgit  Marse  Tom." 

"  Bisco,  it  ain't  human  nature  for  her  to  stan'  up 
agin  all  that's  brought  to  bear  on  her.  Cap'n  Tom  is 
dead.  Love  is  only  human  at  las',  an'  like  all  else  that's 


WESTMORELAND  103 

human  it  mus'  fade  away  if  it  ain't  fed.  It's  been  ten 
years  an'  mo' —  sence  —  Cap'n  Tom's  light  went  out." 
"The  last  day  of  November — '64 — "  said  Uncle 
Bisco,  "  I  was  thar  an'  seed  it.  It  was  at  the  Frank 
lin  fight." 

"An'  Dick  Travis  has  loved  her  from  his  youth," 
went  on  the  overseer,  "  an'  he  loves  her  now,  an'  he's  a 
masterful  man." 

"  So  is  the  Devil,"  whispered  Uncle  Bisco,  "  an  didn't 
he  battle  with  the  angels  of  the  Lord  an'  mighty  nigh 
hurled  'em  from  the  crystal  battlements." 

"  Bisco,  I  know  him  —  I've  knowed  him  from  youth. 
He's  a  conjurin'  man  —  a  man  who  does  things  —  he'll 
win  her  —  he'll  marry  her  yet.  She'll  not  love  him  as 
she  did  Cap'n  Tom.  No  —  she'll  never  love  again. 
But  life  is  one  thing  an'  love  is  another,  an'  it  ain't 
often  they  meet  in  the  same  person.  Youth  mus'  live 
even  if  it  don't  love,  an'  the  law  of  nature  is  the  law 
of  life." 

"I'm  afeered  so,"  said  the  old  negro,  shaking  his 
head,  "  I'm  afeered  it'll  be  that  way  —  but  —  I'd  ruther 
see  her  die  to-night." 

"If  God  lets  it  be,"  said  the  preacher,  "Bisco,  if 
God  lets  it  be  — "  he  said  excitedly,  "  if  he'll  let  Cap'n 
Tom  die  an'  suffer  the  martyrdom  he  suffered  for  con 
science  sake  an'  be  robbed,  as  he  was  robbed,  of  his  home, 
an'  of  his  love  —  if  God'll  do  that,  then  all  I  can  say  is, 
that  after  a  long  life  walkin'  with  God,  it'll  be  the  fus' 
time  I've  ever  knowed  Him  to  let  the  wrong  win  out  in 
the  end.  An'  that  ain't  the  kind  of  God  I'm  lookin* 


102         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  Do  you  say  that,  Marse  Hilly ard?  "  asked  the  old 
negro  quickly  —  his  eyes  taking  on  the  light  of  hope  as 
one  who,  weak,  comes  under  the  influence  of  a  stronger 
mind.  "Marse  Hilly  ard,  do  you  believe  it?  Praise 
God." 

"  Bisco  —  I'm  —  I'm  ashamed  —  why  should  I  doubt 
Him  —  He's  told  me  a  thousand  truths  an'  never  a  lie." 

"  Praise  God,"  replied  the  old  man  softly. 

And  so  the  two  old  men  talked  on,  and  their  talk  was 
of  Captain  Tom.  No  wonder  when  the  old  preacher 
mounted  his  horse  to  go  back  to  his  little  cabin,  all  of 
his  thoughts  were  of  Captain  Tom.  No  wonder  Uncle 
Bisco,  who  had  raised  him,  went  to  bed  and  dreamed  of 
Captain  Tom  —  dreamed  and  saw  again  the  bloody 
Franklin  fight. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A    MUTUAL,    UNDERSTANDING 

IN   the  library,  Travis   and  Mrs.  Westmore  sat  for 
some  time  in   silence.     Travis,   as   usual,   smoked, 
in  his  thoughtful  way  watching  the  firelight  which 
flickered  now  and  then,  half  lighting  up  the  room.      It 
was  plain  that  both  were  thinking  of   a  subject  that 
neither  wished  to  be  the  first  to  bring  up. 

"  I  have  been  wanting  all  day  to  ask  you  about  the 
mortgage,"  she  said  to  him,  finally. 

"  Oh,"  said  Travis,  indifferently  enough  — "  that's 
all  right.  I  arranged  it  at  the  bank  to-day." 

"  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you ;  it  has  been  so  on  my 
mind,"  said  his  companion.  "  We  women  are  such  poor 
financiers,  I  wonder  how  you  men  ever  have  patience  to 
bother  with  us.  Did  you  get  Mr.  Shipton  to  carry  it  at 
the  bank  for  another  year?  " 

"  Why  —  I  —  you  see,  Cousin  Alethea  —  Shipton's  a 
close  dog  —  and  the  most  unaccommodating  fellow  that 
ever  lived   when   it   comes  to   money.     And   so  —  er  - 
well  —  the  truth  is  —  is  —  I  had  to  act  quickly  and  for 
what  I  thought  was  your  interest." 

Mrs.  Westmore  looked  up  quickly,  and  Travis  saw 
the  pained  look  in  her  face.  "  So  I  bought  it  in  my 
self,"  he  went  on,  carelessly  flecking  his  cigar  ashes  into 
the  fire.  "  I  just  had  the  judgment  and  sale  transferred 

103 


104         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

to  me  —  to  accommodate  you  —  Cousin  Alethea  —  you 
understand  that  —  entirely  for  you.  I  hate  to  see  you 
bothered  this  way  —  I'll  carry  it  as  long  as  you  wish." 

She  thanked  him  again,  more  with  her  eyes  than  her 
voice.  Then  there  crept  over  her  face  that  look  of  trou 
ble  and  sorrow,  unlike  any  Travis  had  ever  seen  there. 
Once  seen  on  any  human  face  it  is  always  remembered, 
for  it  is  the  same,  the  world  over,  upon  its  millions  and 
millions  —  that  deadened  look  of  trouble  which  carries 
with  it  the  knowledge  that  the  spot  called  home  is  lost 
forever. 

There  are  many  shifting  photographs  from  the  cam 
era  called  sorrow,  pictured  on  the  delicate  plate  of  the 
human  soul  or  focused  in  the  face.  There  is  the  crushed 
look  when  Death  takes  the  loved  one,  the  hardened  look 
when  an  ideal  is  shattered,  the  look  of  dismay  from 
wrecked  hopes  and  the  cynical  look  from  wrecked  hap 
piness  —  but  none  of  these  is  the  numbed  and  dumb  look 
of  despair  which  confronts  humanity  when  the  home  is 
gone. 

It  runs  not  alone  through  the  man  family,  but  every 
other  animal  as  well,  from  the  broken-hearted  bird  which 
sits  on  the  nearby  limb,  and  sees  the  wreck  of  her  home 
by  the  ravages  of  a  night-prowling  marauder,  to  the 
squalidest  of  human  beings,  turning  their  backs  forever 
on  the  mud-hut  that  had  once  sheltered  them. 

To  Mrs.  Westmore  it  was  a  keen  grief.  Here  had  she 
come  as  a  bride  —  here  had  she  lived  since  —  here  had 
been  born  her  two  children  —  here  occurred  the  great 
sorrow  of  her  life. 

And  the  sacredest  memory,  at  last,  of  life,  lies  not  in 


A  MUTUAL  UNDERSTANDING 

the  handclasp  of  a  coming  joy,  but  in  the  footfall  of  a 
vanishing  sorrow. 

Westmoreland  meant  everything  to  Mrs,  Westmore  — 
the  pride  of  birth,  of  social  standing,  the  ties  of  mother 
hood,  the  very  altar  of  her  life.  And  it  was  her  hus 
band's  name  and  her  own  family.  It  meant  she  was  not 
of  common  clay,  nor  unknown,  nor  without  influence.  It 
was  bound  around  and  woven  into  her  life,  and  part  of 
her  very  existence. 

Home  in  the  South  means  more  than  it  does  anywhere 
else  on  earth ;  for  local  self-government  —  wherever  the 
principle  came  from  —  finds  its  very  altar  there.  States- 
right  is  nothing  but  the  home  idea,  stretched  over  the 
state  and  bounded  by  certain  lines.  The  peculiar  in 
stitutions  of  the  South  made  everj*  home  a  castle,  a  town, 
a  government,  a  kingdom  in  itself,  in  which  the  real 
ruler  is  a  queen. 

Ask  the  first  negro  or  child  met  in  the  road,  whose 
home  is  this,  or  that,  and  one  would  think  the  entire 
Southland  was  widowed. 

From  the  day  she  had  entered  it  as  a  bride,  Westmore 
land,  throughout  the  County,  had  been  known  as  the 
home  of  Mrs.  Westmore. 

She  was  proud  of  it.  She  loved  it  with  that  love 
which  had  come  down  through  a  long  line  of  cavaliers 
loving  their  castles. 

And  now  she  knew  it  must  go,  as  well  as  that,  sooner 
or  later,  Death  itself  must  come. 

She  knew  Richard  Travis,  and  she  knew  that,  if  from 
his  life  were  snatched  the  chance  of  making  Alice  West- 


106         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

more  his  wife  he  would  sell  the  place  as  cold-bloodedly  as 
Shipton  would. 

Travis  sat  smoking,  but  reading  her.  He  spelled  her 
thoughts  as  easily  as  if  they  had  been  written  on  her 
forehead,  for  he  was  a  man  who  spelled.  He  smoked 
calmly  and  indifferently,  but  the  one  question  of  his 
heart  —  the  winning  of  Alice, —  surged  in  his  breast  and 
it  said :  "  Now  is  the  time  —  now  —  buy  her  —  the 
mother.  This  is  the  one  thing  which  is  her  price." 

He  looked  at  Mrs.  Westmore  again.  He  scanned  her 
closely,  from  her  foot  to  the  dainty  head  of  beautiful, 
half-grey  hair.  *  He  could  read  her  as  an  open  book  — 
her  veneration  of  all  Westmoreland  things  —  her  vanity 
— •  her  pride  of  home  and  name  and  position ;  the 
overpowering  independence  of  that  vanity  which  made 
her  hold  up  her  head  in  company,  just  as  in  the  former 
days,  tho'  to  do  it  she  must  work,  scrub,  pinch,  ay,  even 
go  hungry. 

He  knew  it  all  and  he  knew  it  better  than  she  guessed 

—  that  it  had  actually  come  to  a  question  of  food  with 
them;  that  her  son  was  a  geological  dreamer,  just  out 
of  college,  and  that  Alice's  meagre  salary  at  the  run 
down   female  college  where   she  taught   music    was   all 
that   stood  between   them   and   poverty  of  the  bitterest 
kind. 

For  there  is  no  poverty  like  the  tyranny  of  that  which 
sits  on  the  erstwhile  throne  of  plenty. 

He  glanced  around  the  room  —  the  hall  —  the  home 

—  in  his  mind's  eye  —  and  wondered  how  she  did  it  — 
how  she  managed  that  poverty  should  leave  no  trace  of 
itself  in  the  home,  the  we1!  furnished  and  elegant  old 


A  MUTUAL  UNDERSTANDING          107 

home,  from  its  shining,  polished  furniture  and  old  silver 
to  the  oiled  floor  of  oak  and  ash. 

Could  he  buy  her  —  bribe  her,  win  her  to  work  for 
him  ?  He  started  to  speak  and  say :  "  Cousin  Alethea, 
may  not  all  this  be  stopped,  this  debt  and  poverty  and 
make-believe  —  this  suffering  of  pride,  transfixed  by  the 
spears  of  poverty?  Let  you  and  me  arrange  it,  and  all 
so  satisfactorily.  I  have  loved  Alice  all  my  life." 

There  is  the  fool  in  every  one  of  us.  And  that  is  what 
the  fool  in  Richard  Travis  wished  him  to  say.  What 
he  did  say  was: 

"  Oh,  it  was  nothing  but  purely  business  on  my  part 
-  purely  business.  I  had  the  money  and  was  looking  for 
a  good  investment.  I  was  glad  to  find  it.  There  are 
a  hundred  acres  and  the  house  left.  And  by  the  way, 
Cousin  Alethea,  I  just  added  five-hundred  dollars  more 
to  the  principal, —  thought,  perhaps,  you'd  need  it,  you 
know?  You'll  find  it  to  your  credit  at  Shipton's  bank." 

He  smoked  on  as  if  he  thought  it  was  nothing.  As  a 
business  fact  he  knew  the  place  was  already  mortgaged 
for  all  it  was  worth. 

"  Oh,  how  can  we  ever  thank  you  enough  ?  " 

Travis  glanced  at  her  when  she  spoke.  He  flushed 
when  he  heard  her  place  a  slight  accent  on  the  we.  She 
glanced  at  him  and  then  looked  into  the  fire.  But  in 
their  glances  which  met,  they  both  saw  that  the  other 
knew  and  understood. 

"  And  by  the  way,  Cousin  Alethea,"  said  Travis  after 
a  while,  "  of  course  it  is  not  necessary  to  let  Alice  know 
anything  of  this  business.  It  will  only  worry  her  un 
necessarily." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Mrs.  Westmore. 


CHAPTER  X 

A   STAR   AND   A   SATELLITE 

AN  hour  later  Mrs.  Westmore  had  gone  to  her  room 
and  Alice  had  been  singing  his  favorite  songs. 
Her  singing  always  had   a   peculiar   influence 
over  Richard   Travis  —  a  moral   influence,  which,  per 
haps,  was  the  secret  of  its  power ;  and  all  influence  which 
is  permanent  is  moral.     There  was  in  it  for  him  an  up 
lifting  force  that  he  never  experienced  save  in  her  pres 
ence  and  under  the  influence  of  her  songs. 

He  was  a  brilliant  man  and  he  knew  that  if  he  won 
Alice  Westmore  it  must  be  done  on  a  high  plane. 
Women  were  his  playthings  —  he  had  won  them  by  the 
score  and  flung  them  away  when  won.  But  all  his  life 
—  even  when  a  boy  —  he  had  dreamed  of  finally  winning 
Alice  Westmore  and  settling  down. 

Like  all  men  who  were  impure,  he  made  the  mistake 
of  thinking  that  one  day,  when  he  wished,  he  could  be 
pure. 

Such  a  man  may  marry,  but  it  is  a  thing  of  conven 
ience,  a  matter  in  which  he  selects  some  woman,  who 
he  knows  will  not  be  his  mistress,  to  become  his  house 
keeper. 

And  thus  she  plods  along  in  life,  differing  eventually 
only  from  his  mistress  in  that  she  is  the  mother  of  his 
children. 

108 


A  STAR  AND  A  SATELLITE  109 

In  all  Richard's  longings,  too,  for  Alice  Wcstmore, 
there  was  an  unconscious  cause.  He  did  not  know  it  be 
cause  he  could  not  know. 

Sooner  or  later  love,  which  is  loose,  surfeits  and  sours. 
It  is  then  that  it  turns  instinctively  to  the  pure,  as  the 
Jews,  straying  from  their  true  God  and  meeting  the 
chastisement  of  the  sword  of  Babylon,  turned  in  their 
anguish  to  the  city  of  their  King. 

Nature  is  inexorable,  and  love  has  its  laws  as  fixed  as 
those  which  hold  the  stars  in  their  course.  And  woe  to 
the  man  or  woman  who  transgresses !  He  who,  ere  it  is 
ripe,  deflowers  the  bud  of  blossoming  love  in  wantonness 
and  waste,  in  after  years  will  watch  and  wait  and  water 
it  with  tears,  in  vain,  for  that  bloom  will  never  come. 

She  came  over  by  the  fire.  Her  face  was  flushed ;  her 
beautiful  sad  eyes  lighted  with  excitement. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  you 
sing,  Alice  ?  " 

His  voice  was  earnest  and  full  of  pathos,  for  him. 

"  Was  it  not  when  father  dressed  me  as  a  gypsy  girl 
and  I  rode  my  pony  over  to  The  Gaffs  and  sang  from 
horseback  for  your  grandfather?  " 

He  nodded :  "  I  thought  you  were  the  prettiest  thing 
I  ever  saw,  and  I  have  thought  so  ever  since.  That's 
when  I  fell  in  love  with  you." 

"  I  remember  quite  distinctly  what  you  did,"  she  said. 
"  You  were  a  big  boy  and  you  came  up  behind  my  pony 
and  jumped  on,  frightening  us  dreadfully." 

"  Tried  to  kiss  you,  didn't  I?  " 

She  laughed :  "  That  was  ever  a  chronic  endeavor  of 
your  youth." 


110         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

How  pretty  she  looked.  Had  it  been  any  other 
woman  he  would  have  reached  over  and  taken  her  hand. 

"  Overpower  her,  master  her,  make  her  love  you  by 
force  of  arms  "•  —  his  inner  voice  said. 

He  turned  to  the  musing  woman  beside  him  aud  me 
chanically  reached  out  his  hand.  Hers  lay  on  the  arm 
of  her  chair.  The  next  instant  he  would  have  dropped 
his  upon  it  and  held  it  there.  But  as  he  made  the  mo 
tion  her  eyes  looked  up  into  his,  so  passion-free  and 
holy  that  his  own  arm  fell  by  his  side. 

But  the  little  wave  of  passion  in  him  only  stirred  him 
to  his  depths.  Ere  she  knew  it  or  could  stop  him  he 
was  telling  her  the  story  of  his  love  for  her.  Poetry, — 
romance, —  and  with  it  the  strength  of  saying, —  fell 
from  his  lips  as  naturally  as  sno*.v  from  the  clouds.  He 
went  into  the  history  of  old  loves  —  how,  of  all  loves 
they  are  the  greatest  —  of  Jacob  who  served  his  four 
teen  years  for  Rachel,  of  the  love  of  Petrarch,  of  Dante. 

"  Do  you  know  Browning's  most  beautiful  poem  ?  " 
he  asked  at  last.  His  voice  was  tenderly  mellow: 

"  All  that  I  know  of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw  (like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red,  now  a  dart  of  blue ; 
Till  my  friends  have  said  they  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue ! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird ;  like  a  flower,  hangs  furled : 
They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn  above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world? 
Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me ;  therefore  I  love  it." 


A  STAR  AND  A  SATELLITE  111 

"  Alice,"  he  said,  drawing  his  chair  closer  to  her,  "  I 
know  I  have  no  such  life  to  offer  as  you  would  bring 
to  me.  The  best  we  men  can  do  is  to  do  the  best  we  can. 
We  are  saved  only  because  there  is  one  woman  we  can 
look  to  always  as  our  star.  There  is  much  of  our  past 
that  we  all  might  wish  to  change,  but  change,  like  work, 
is  the  law  of  life,  and  we  must  not  always  dream." 

Quietly  he  had  dropped  his  hand  upon  hers.  Her 
own  eyes  were  far  off  —  they  were  dreaming.  So  deep 
was  her  dream  that  she  had  not  noticed  it.  Passion 
practised,  as  he  was,  the  torch  of  her  hand  thrilled  him 
as  with  wine ;  and  as  with  wine  was  he  daring. 

"  I  know  where  your  thoughts  have  been,"  he  went  on. 
She  looked  up  with  a  start  and  her  hand  slipped  from 
under  his  into  her  lap.  It  was  a  simple  movement  and 
involuntary  —  like  that  of  the  little  brown  quail  when 
she  slips  from  the  sedge-grass  into  the  tangled  depths  of 
the  blossoming  wild  blackberry  bushes  at  the  far  off  flash 
of  a  sharp-shinned  hawk-wing,  up  in  the  blue.  Nor 
could  she  say  whether  she  saw  it,  or  whether  it  was  merely 
a  shadow,  an  instinctive  signal  from  the  innocent  courts 
of  the  sky  to  the  brood-children  of  her  innocence  below. 

But  he  saw  it  and  said  quickly,  changing  with  it  the 
subject:  "  At  least  were  —  but  all  that  has  passed.  I 
need  you,  Alice,"  he  went  on  passionately  — "  in  my  life, 
in  my  work.  My  home  is  there,  waiting !  It  has  been 
waiting  all  these  years  for  you  —  its  mistress  —  the  only 
mistress  it  shall  ever  have.  Your  mother"  -Alice 
looked  at  him  surprised. 

"  Your  mother  —  you, —  perhaps,  had  not  thought 
of  that  —  your  mother  needs  the  rest  and  the  care  we 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

could  give  her.  Our  lives  are  not  always  our  own,"  he 
went  on  gravely — "oftentimes  it  belongs  partly  to 
others  —  for  their  happiness." 

He  felt  that  he  was  striking  a  winning  chord. 

*  You  can  love  me  if  you  would  say  so,"  he  said, 
bending  low  over  her. 

This  time,  when  his  hand  fell  on  hers,  she  did  not 
move.  Surprised,  he  looked  into  her  eyes.  There  were 
tears  there. 

Travis  knew  when  he  had  gone  far  enough.  Rever 
ently  he  kissed  her  hand  as  he  said : 

"  Never  mind  —  in  your  own  time,  Alice.  I  can 
wait  —  I  have  waited  long.  Twenty  years,"  he  added, 
patiently,  even  sweetly,  "  and  if  need  be,  I'll  wait  twenty 
more." 

"  I'll  go  now,"  he  said,  after  a  moment. 

She  looked  at  him  gratefully,  and  arose.  "  One  mo 
ment,  Richard,"  she  said  — "  but  you  were  speaking  of 
mother,  and  knowing  your  zeal  for  her  I  was  afraid 
you  might  —  might  —  the  mortgage  has  been  troubling 
her." 

"  Oh,  no  —  no  "•  -  he  broke  in  quickly  — "  I  did  noth 
ing —  absolutely  nothing  —  though  I  wanted  to  for 
your  sake." 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  she  said  — "  we  will  manage  some 
how.  I  am  so  sensitive  about  such  things." 

"  I'll  come  to-morrow  afternoon  and  bring  your 
mare." 

She  smiled,  surprised. 

"  Yes,  your  mare  —  I  happened  on  her  quite  unex 
pectedly  in  Tennessee.  I  have  bought  her  for  you  — 


A  STAR  AND  A  SATELLITE  113 

she  is  elegant,  and  I  wish  you  to  ride  her  often.  I  have 
given  Jim  orders  that  no  one  but  you  shall  ride  her.  If 
it  is  a  pretty  day  to-morrow  I  shall  be  around  in  the 
afternoon,  and  we  will  ride  down  to  the  bluffs  five  miles 
away  to  see  the  sunset." 

The  trotters  were  at  the  door.  He  took  her  hand  as 
he  said  good-bye,  and  held  it  while  he  added: 

"  Maybe  you'd  better  forget  all  I  said  to-night  —  be 
patient  with  me  —  remember  how  long  I  have  waited." 

He  was  off  and  sprang  into  the  buggy,  elated.  Never 
before  had  she  let  him  hold  her  hand  even  for  a  mo- 
ment.  He  felt,  he  knew,  that  he  would  win  her. 

He  turned  the  horses  and  drove  off. 

From  Westmoreland  Travis  drove  straight  toward 
the  town.  The  trotters,  keen  and  full  of  play,  flew 
along,  tossing  their  queenly  heads  in  the  very  exuber 
ance  of  life. 

At  The  Gaffs,  he  drew  rein :  "Now,  Jim,  I'll  be  back 
at  midnight.  You  sleep  light  until  I  come  in,  and  have 
their  bedding  dry  and  blankets  ready." 

He  tossed  the  boy  a  dollar  as  he  drove  off. 

Up  the  road  toward  the  town  he  drove,  finally  slack 
ening  his  trotters'  speed  as  he  came  into  the  more  thickly 
settled  part  of  the  outskirts.  Sand  Mountain  loomed 
high  in  the  faint  moonlight,  and  at  its  base,  in  the  out 
posts  of  the  town,  arose  the  smokestack  of  the  cotton 
mills. 

Around  it  lay  Cottontown. 

Slowly  he  brought  the  nettled  trotters  down  to  a  walk. 
Quietly  he  turned  them  into  a  shaded  lane,  overhung 
with  forest  trees,  near  which  a  cottage,  one  of  the  many 


114         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

belonging  to  the  mill,  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  forest. 

Stopping  his  horses  in  the  shadow,  he  drew  out  his 
watch  and  pressed  the  stem.  It  struck  eleven. 

He  drew  up  the  buggy-top  and  taking  the  little  silver 
whistle  from  his  pocket,  gave  a  low  whistle. 

It  was  ten  minutes  later  before  the  side  door  of  the 
cottage  opened  softly  and  a  girl  came  noiselessly  out. 
She  slipped  out,  following  the  shadow  line  of  the  trees 
until  she  came  up  to  the  buggy.  Th«»  she  threw  the 
shawl  from  off  her  face  and  head  and  stood  smiling  up  at 
Travis.  It  had  been  a  pretty  face,  but  now  it  was 
pinched  by  overwork  and  there  was  the  mingling  both 
of  sadness  and  gladness  in  her  eyes.  But  at  sight  of 
Travis  she  blushed  joyfully,  and  deeper  still  when  he 
held  out  his  hand  and  drew  her  into  the  buggy  and  up  to 
the  seat  beside  him. 

"Maggie" — was  all  he  whispered.  Then  he  kissed 
her  passionately  on  her  lips.  "  I  am  glad  I  came,"  he 
went  on,  as  he  put  one  arm  around  her  and  drew  her  to 
him  — "  you're  flushed  and  the  ride  will  do  you  good." 

She  was  satisfied  to  let  her  head  lie  on  his  shoulder. 

"  They  are  beauties  " —  she  said  after  a  while,  as  the 
trotters'  thrilling,  quick  step  brought  the  blood  tingling 
to  her  veins. 

"  Beauties  for  the  beauty,"  said  Travis,  kissing  her 
again.  Her  brown  hair  was  in  his  face  and  the  perfume 
of  it  went  through  him  like  the  whistling  flash  of  the 
first  wild  doe  he  had  killed  in  his  first  boyish  hunt  and 
which  he  never  forgot. 

"  You  do .  love  me,"  she  said  at  last,  looking  up  into 
his  face,  where  her  head  rested.  She  could  not  move  be- 


A  STAR  AND  A  SATELLITE  115 

cause  his  arm  held  her  girlish  form  to  him  with  an  over 
powering  clasp. 

"Why?"  he  asked,  kissing  her  again  and  in  sheer 
passionate  excess  holding  his  lips  on  hers  until  she  could 
not  speak,  but  only  look  love  with  her  eyes.  When  she 
could,  she  sighed  and  said: 

"  Because,  you  could  not  make  me  so  happy  if  you 
didn't." 

He  relaxed  his  arm  to  control  the  trotters,  which  were 
going  too  fast  down  the  road.  She  sat  up  by  his  side 
and  went  on. 

"  Do  you  know  I  have  thought  lots  about  what  you 
said  last  Saturday  night  ?  " 

"Why,  what?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  pained  that  he  had  forgotten. 

"  About  —  about  —  our  bein'  married  to  each  other 
—  even  —  even  —  if  —  if  -  -  there's  no  preacher.  You 
know  —  that  true  love  makes  marriages,  and  not  a  cere 
mony  —  and  —  and  —  that  the  heart  is  the  priest  to  all 
of  us,  you  know !  " 

Travis  said  nothing.     He  had  forgotten  all  about  it. 

"  One  thing  I  wrote  down  in  my  little  book  when  I  got 
back  home  an'  memorized  it  —  Oh,  you  can  say  such 
beautiful  things." 

He  seized  her  and  kissed  her  again. 

"  I  am  so  happy  with  you  —  always  —  "  she  laughed. 

He  drove  toward  the  shaded  trees  down  by  the  river. 

"  I  want  you  to  see  how  the  setting  moonlight  looks 
on  the  river,"  he  said.  "  There  is  nothing  in  all  nature 
like  it.  It  floats  like  a  crescent  above,  falling  into  the 
arms  of  its  companion  below.  All  nature  is  love  and 


116        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

never  fails  to  paint  a  love  scene  in  preference  to  all 
others,  if  permitted.  How  else  can  you  account  for  it 
making  two  lover  moons  fall  into  each  other's  arms,"  he 
laughed. 

She  looked  at  him  enraptured.  It  was  the  tribute 
which  mediocrity  pays  to  genius. 

Presently  they  passed  by  Westmoreland,  and  from 
Alice's  window  a  light  shone  far  out  into  the  golden 
tinged  leaves  of  the  beeches  near. 

Travis  glanced  up  at  it.  Then  at  the  pretty  mill- 
girl  by  his  side: 

"  A  star  and  —  a  satellite !  " —  he  smiled  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    MIDNIGHT    BURIAL 

IT  was  growing  late  when  the  old  preacher  left  West 
moreland  and  rode  leisurely  back  toward  the  cabin 
on  Sand  Mountain.     The  horse  he  was  riding  —  a 
dilapidated  roan  —  was  old  and  blind,  but  fox-trotted 
along  with  the  easy  assurance  of  having  often  travelled 
the  same  road. 

The  bridle  rested  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle.  The 
old  man's  head  was  bent  in  deep  thought,  and  the  roan, 
his  head  also  down  and  half  dreaming,  jogged  into  the 
dark  shadows  which  formed  a  wooded  gulch,  leading  into 
the  valley  and  from  thence  into  the  river. 

There  is  in  us  an  unnameable  spiritual  quality  which, 
from  lack  of  a  more  specific  name,  we  call  mental  telep 
athy.  Some  day  we  shall  know  more  about  it,  just  as 
some  day  we  shall  know  what  unknown  force  it  is  which 
draws  the  needle  to  the  pole. 

It  is  the  border  land  of  the  spiritual  —  a  touch  of  it, 
given,  to  let  us  know  there  is  more  and  in  great  abun 
dance  in  the  country  to  which  we  ultimately  shall  go,— 
a  glimpse  of  the  kingdom  which  is  to  be. 

To-night,  tliis  influence  was  on  the  old  man.  The 
theme  of  his  thoughts  was,  Captain  Tom.  Somehow  he 
felt  that  even  then  Captain  Tom  was  near  him.  How  — 
where  —  why  —  he  could  not  tell.  He  merely  felt  it. 

117 


118         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

And  so  the  very  shadows  of  the  trees  grew  uncanny 
to  him  as  he  rode  by  them  and  the  slight  wind  among 
them  mourned  Captain  Tom  —  Captain  Tom. 

It  was  a  desolate  place  in  the  narrow  mountain  road 
and  scarcely  could  the  old  man  see  the  white  sand  which 
wound  in  and  through  it,  and  then  out  again  on  the  op 
posite  side  into  the  clearing  beyond  the  scraggy  side  of 
Sand  Mountain.  But  the  horse  knew  every  foot  of  the 
way,  and  though  it  was  always  night  with  him,  instinct 
had  taught  him  a  sure  footing. 

Suddenly  the  rider  was  awakened  from  his  reverie  by 
the  old  horse  stopping  so  suddenly  as  almost  to  unseat 
him.  With  a  snort  the  roan  had  stopped  and  had 
thrown  up  his  head,  quivering  writh  fear,  while  with  his 
nose  he  was  trying  to  smell  out  the  queer  thing  which 
stood  in  his  path. 

The  moon  broke  out  from  behind  a  cloud  at  the  same 
moment,  and  there,  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  not  ten 
yards  from  him,  stood  a  heavily  built,  rugged,  black- 
bearded  man  in  a  ragged  slouched  hat  and  pointing  a 
heavy  revolver  at  the  rider's  head. 

"  Hands  up,  Hilliard  Watts !  " 

The  old  man  looked  quietly  into  the  muzzle  of  the  re 
volver  and  said,  with  a  laugh : 

"  This  ain't  'zactly  my  benediction  time,  Jack 
Bracken,  an'  I've  no  notion  of  h'istin'  my  arms  an'  axin' 
a  blessin'  over  you  an'  that  old  pistol.  Put  it  up  an' 
tell  me  what  you  want,"  he  said  more  softly. 

"  Well,  you  do  know  me,"  said  the  man,  coming  for 
ward  and  thrusting  his  pistol  into  its  case.  "  I  wa'nt 
sho'  it  was  you,"  he  said,  "  and  I  wa'nt  sho'  you'd  kno* 


A  MIDNIGHT  BURIAL  119 

me  if  it  was.  In  my  business  I  have  to  be  mighty  keer- 
ful,"  he  added  with  a  slight  laugh. 

He  came  up  to  the  saddle-skirt  and  held  out  his  hand, 
half  hesitatingly,  as  he  spoke. 

The  Bishop  —  as  every  one  knew  him  —  glanced  into 
the  face  before  him  and  saw  something  which  touched 
him  quickly.  It  was  grief-stricken,  and  sorrow  sat  in 
the  fierce  eyes,  and  in  the  shadows  of  the  dark  face.  And 
through  it  all,  a  pleading,  beseeching  appeal  for  sym 
pathy  ran  as  he  half  doubtingly  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Why, —  yes  — ,  I'll  take  it,  Jack,  robber  that  you 
are,"  said  the  old  man  cheerily.  "  You  may  not  be  as 
bad  as  they  say,  an'  no  man  is  worse  than  his  heart.  But 
what  in  the  worl'  do  you  want  to  hold  up  as  po'  a  man 
as  me  —  an'  if  I  do  say  it,  yo'  f rien'  when  you  was  a 
boy?" 

"  I  know,"  said  the  other  — "  I  know.  I  don't  want 
yo'  money,  even  if  you  had  it.  I  want  you.  You've 
come  as  a  God-send.  I  —  I  couldn't  bury  him  till  you'd 
said  somethin'." 

His  voice  choked  —  he  shook  with  a  suppressed  sob. 

The  bishop  slid  off  his  horse :  "  What  is  it,  Jack  ? 
You  hain't  kilt  anybody,  have  you  ?  " 

"No  — no"— said  the  other  — "  its  little  —  little 
Jack  —  he's  dead." 

The  Bishop  looked  at  him  inquiringly.  He  had  never 
before  heard  of  little  Jack. 

"  I  —  I  dunno',  Jack,"  he  said.  "  You'll  have  to  tell 
me  all.  I  hain't  seed  you  sence  you  started  in  your  rob- 
l>er  career  after  the  war  —  sence  I  buried  yo'  father," 
he  added.  "An'  a  fine,  brave  man  he  was,  Jack  —  a 


120         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

fine,  brave  man  —  an'  I've  wondered  how  sech  a  man's 
son  could  ever  do  as  you've  done." 

"  Come,"  said  the  other  — "  I'll  tell  you.  Come,  an' 
say  a  prayer  over  little  Jack  fust.  You  must  do  it " — 
he  said  almost  fiercely  — "  I  won't  bury  him  without  a 
prayer  —  him  that  was  an  angel  an'  all  I  had  on  earth. 
Hitch  yo'  hoss  just  outer  the  road,  in  the  thicket,  an' 
follow  me." 

The  Bishop  did  as  he  was  told,  and  Jack  Bracken  led 
the  way  down  a  rocky  gulch  under  the  shaggy  sides  of 
Sand  Mountain,  furzed  with  scraggy  trees  and  thick 
with  underbrush  and  weeds. 

It  was  a  tortuous  path  and  one  in  which  the  old  man 
himself,  knowing,  as  he  thought  he  did,  every  foot  of 
the  country  around,  could  easily  have  been  lost.  Above, 
through  the  trees,  the  moon  shone  dimly,  and  no  path 
could  be  seen  under  foot.  But  Jack  Bracken  slouched 
heavily  along,  in  a  wabbling,  awkward  gait,  never  once 
looking  back  to  see  if  his  companion  followed. 

For  a  half  mile  the}''  went  through  what  the  Bishop 
had  always  thought  was  an  almost  impenetrable  cattle 
trail.  At  last  they  wound  around  a  curve  on  the  densely 
wooded  side  of  the  mountain,  beyond  which  lay  the  broad 
river  breathing  out  frosty  mist  and  vapor  from  its  sleep 
ing  bosom. 

Following  a  dry  gulch  until  it  ended  abruptly  at  the 
river's  bluff,  around  the  mouth  of  which  great  loose 
rocks  lay  as  they  had  been  washed  by  the  waters  of 
many  centuries,  and  bushes  grew  about,  the  path  ter 
minated  abruptly.  It  overlooked  the  river  romantically, 
with  a  natural  rock  gallery  in  front. 


A  MIDNIGHT  BURIAL 

Jack  Bracken  stopped  and  sat  down  on  one  of  the 
rocks.  From  underneath  he  drew  forth  a  lantern  and 
prepared  to  light  it.  "  This  is  my  home,"  he  said  la 
conically. 

The  Bishop  looked  around :  "  Well,  Jack,  but  this  is 
part  of  my  own  leetle  forty -acre  farm.  Why,  thar's 
my  cabin  up  yander.  We've  wound  in  an'  aroun'  the 
back  of  my  place  down  by  the  river!  I  never  seed  this 
hole  befo'." 

"  I  knew  it  was  yo's,"  said  the  outlaw  quietly. 
"  That's  why  I  come  here.  Many  a  Sunday  night  I've 
slipped  up  to  the  little  church  winder  an'  heard  you 
preach  —  me  an'  po'  little  Jack.  Oh,  he  loved  to  hear 
the  Bible  read  an'  he  never  forgot  nothin'  you  erer  said. 
He  knowed  all  about  Joseph  an'  Moses  an'  Jesus,  an'  last 
night  when  he  died  o'  that  croup  befo'  I  c'ud  get  him 
help  or  anything,  he  wanted  you,  an'  he  said  he  was 
goin'  to  the  Ian'  where  you  said  Jesus  was  — " 

He  broke  down  —  he  could  not  say  it. 

Stepping  into  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  he  struck  a 
match,  when  out  of  sight  of  the  entrance  way,  and  step 
ping  from  stone  to  stone  he  guided  the  Bishop  down 
some  twenty  feet,  following  the  channel  the  water  had 
cut  on  its  way  underground  to  the  river.  Here  another 
opening  entered  into  the  dry  channel,  and  into  it  he 
stepped. 

It  was  a  nicely  turned  cave  —  a  natural  room,— 
arched  above  with  beautiful  white  lime-rock,  the  stalac 
tites  hanging  in  pointed  clusters,  their  starry  points 
twinkling  above  like  stars  in  a  winter  sky.  Underneath, 
the  soft  sand  made  a  clean,  warm  floor,  and  the  entire 


18S         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

cave  was  so  beautiful  that  the  old  man  could  do  nothing 
but  look  and  admire,  as  the  light  fell  on  stalagmite  and 
ghostly  columns  and  white  sanded  floors. 

"  Beautiful,"  he  said  — "  Jack,  you  cudn't  he'p  get- 
tin'  relig'un  here." 

"  Little  Jack  loved  'em,"  said  the  outlaw.  "  He'd  lay 
here  ev'y  night  befo'  he'd  go  to  sleep  an'  look  up  an' 
call  it  his  heaven ;  an'  he  said  that  big  column  thar  was 
the  great  white  throne,  an'  them  big  things  up  yander 
with  wings  was  angels.  He  had  all  them  other  columns 
named  for  the  fellers  you  preached  about  —  Moses  an' 
Aaron  an'  Joseph  an'  all  of  'em,  an'  that  kind  o'  double 
one  lookin'  like  a  woman  holding  her  child,  he  called 
Mary  an'  little  Jesus." 

"  He's  gone  to  a  prettier  heaven  than  this,"  said  the 
Bishop  looking  down  on  the  little  figure,  with  face  as 
pale  and  white  as  any  of  the  columns  around  him,  neatly 
dressed  and  wrapped,  save  his  face,  in  an  old  oil  cloth 
and  lying  on  the  little  bed  that  sat  in  a  corner. 

The  old  man  sat  down  very  tenderly  by  the  little  dead 
bo}'  and,  pulling  out  a  testament  from  his  pocket,  read 
to  the  outlaw,  whose  whole  soul  was  centered  in  all  he 
said,  the  comforting  chapter  which  Miss  Alice  had  that 
night  read  to  the  old  negro:  "  Let  not  your  hearts  be 
troubled.  .  .  ." 

He  explained  as  he  read,  and  told  the  father  how 
little  Jack  was  now  in  one  of  the  many  mansions  and  far 
better  off  than  living  in  a  cave,  the  child  of  an  outlaw, 
for  the  Bishop  did  not  mince  his  words.  He  dwelt  on 
it,  that  God  had  taken  the  little  boy  for  love  of  him, 
and  to  give  him  a  better  home  and  perhaps  as  a  means 


A  MIDNIGHT  BURIAL 

of  changing  the  father,  and  when  he  said  the  last  prayer 
over  the  dead  child  asking  for  forgiveness  for  the 
father's  sins,  that  he  might  meet  the  little  one  in  heaven, 
the  heart  of  the  outlaw  burst  with  grief  and  repentance 
within  him. 

He  fell  at  the  old  man's  feet,  on  his  knees  —  he  laid 
his  big  shaggy  head  in  the  Bishop's  lap  and  wept  as  he 
had  never  wept  before. 

"  There  can't  be  —  you  don't  mean,"  he  said  — "  that 
there  is  forgiveness  for  me  —  that  I  can  so  live  that  I'll 
see  little  Jack  again !  " 

"  That's  just  what  I  mean,  Jack,"  said  the  old  man 
— "  here  it  all  is  —  here  —  in  a  book  that  never  lies,  an' 
all  vouched  for  by  Him  who  could  walk  in  here  to-night 
and  lay  His  sweet  hands  on  little  Jack  an'  tell  him  to  rise 
an'  laugh  agin,  an'  he'd  do  it.  You  turn  about  now 
an'  see  if  it  ain't  so  —  an'  that  you'll  be  better  an'  hap 
pier." 

"  But  —  my  God,  man  —  you  don't  know  —  you 
don't  understan'.  I've  robbed,  I've  killed.  Men  have 
gone  down  befo'  my  bullets  like  .sheep.  They  was 
shootin'  at  me,  too  —  but  I  shot  best.  I'm  a  murderer." 

The  old  Bishop  looked  at  him  calmly. 

"  So  was  Moses  and  David,"  he  replied  — "  men  after 
God's  own  heart.  An'  so  was  many  another  that's  now 
called  a  saint,  from  old  Hickory  Jackson  up." 

"  But  I'm  a  robber  —  a  thief " —  began  Jack 
Bracken. 

•  "  We  all  steal,"  said  the  old  man  sadly  shaking  his 
head  — "  it's  human  nature.  There's  a  thief  in  every 
trade,  an'  every  idle  hand  is  a  robber,  an'  every  idle 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

tongue  is  a  thief  an'  a  liar.  We  all  steal.  But  there's 
somethin'  of  God  an'  divinity  in  all  of  us,  an'  in  spite 
of  our  shortcomin'  it'll  bring  us  back  at  last  to  our 
Father's  home  if  we'll  give  it  a  chance.  God's  Book 
can't  lie,  an'  it  says:  "  TJw'  your  sim  be  as  scarlet 
tliey  shall  be  white  as  snow!  "...  an'  then  agin, 
sliall  have  life  everlasting!  " 

"  Life  everlastin',"  repeated  the  outlaw.  "  Do  you 
believe  that  ?  Oh,  if  it  was  only  so !  To  live  always  up 
there  an'  with  little  Jack.  How  do  you  know  it  ain't 
lyin'  ?  —  Its  too  gran'  to  be  so.  How  do  you  know  it 
ain't  lyin',  I  say?  Hilliard  Watts,  are  you  handin'  it 
out  to  me  straight  about  this  here  Jesus  Christ  ?  "  he 
cried  bitterly. 

"Well,  it's  this  way,  Jack,"  said  the  old  man,  "  jes' 
this  away  an'  plain  as  the  nose  on  yo'  face :  Now  here's 
me,  ain'  it?  Well,  you  know  I  won't  lie  to  you.  You 
believe  me,  don't  you  ?  " 

The  outlaw  nodded. 

"Why?"  asked  the  Bishop. 

"  Because  you  a;n't  never  lied  to  me,"  said  the  other. 
"  You've  allers  told  me  the  truth  about  the  things  I  know 
to  be  so." 

"  But  now,  suppose,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I'd  tell  you 
about  somethin'  you  had  never  seed  —  that,  for  instance, 
sence  you've  been  an  outcast  from  society  an'  a  livin'  in 
this  cave,  I've  seed  men  talk  to  each  other  a  hundred 
miles  apart,  with  nothin'  but  a  wire  betwix'  'em." 

"  That's  mighty  hard  to  believe,"  said  the  outlaw 
grimly. 

"  But  I've  seed  it  done,"  said  the  Bishop. 


A  MIDNIGHT  BURIAL  125 

"  Do  you  mean  it?  "  asked  the  other. 

"  As  I  live,  I  have,"  said  the  Bishop. 

"  Then  it's  so,"  said  Jack. 

"Now  that's  faith,  Jack  —  an'  common  sense,  too. 
We  know  what'll  be  the  earthly  end  of  the  liar,  an'  the 
thief,  an'  the  murderer,  an'  him  that's  impure  —  be 
cause  we  see  'em  come  to  thar  end  all  the  time.  It  don't 
lie  when  it  tells  you  the  good  are  happy,  an'  the  hones' 
are  elevated  an'  the  mem'ry  of  the  just  shall  not  perish, 
because  them  things  we  see  come  so.  Now,  if  after 
tellin'  you  all  that,  that's  true,  it  axes  you  to  believe  when 
it  says  there  is  another  life  —  a  spiritual  life,  which  we 
can't  conceive  of,  an'  there  we  shall  live  forever,  can't 
you  believe  that,  too,  sence  it  ain't  never  lied  about  what 
you  can  see,  by  your  own  senses?  Why  ever'  star  that 
shines,  an'  ever'  beam  of  sunlight  fallin'  on  the  earth, 
an'  ever'  beat  of  yo'  own  heart  by  some  force  that  we 
know  not  of,  all  of  them  is  mo'  wonderful  than  the  tele 
graph,  an'  the  livin'  agin  of  the  spirit  ain't  any  mo' 
wonderful  than  the  law  that  holds  the  stars  in  their 
places.  You'll  see  little  Jack  agin  as  sho'  as  God  lives 
an'  holds  the  worl'  in  His  hand." 

The  outlaw  sat  mute  and  motionless,  and  a  great  light 
of  joy  swept  over  his  face. 

"  By  God's  help  I'll  do  it  "—  and  he  bowed  his  head 

in  prayer  —  the  first  he  had  uttered  since  he  was  a  boy. 

It  was   wonderful   to   see   the   happy   and    reconciled 

change  when  he  arose  and  tenderly  lifted  the  dead  child 

in  his  arms.     His  face  was  transformed  with  a  peace  the 

old  man  had  never  seen  before  in  any  human  being. 

Strong  men   are  always  strong  —  in   crime  —  in  sin. 


126        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

When  they  reform  it  is  the  reformation  of  strength. 
Such  a  change  came  over  Jack  Bracken,  the  outlaw. 

He  carried  his  dead  child  to  the  next  room :  "  I've 
got  his  grave  already  chiseled  out  of  the  rocks.  I'll 
bury  him.  here  —  right  under  the  columns  he  called  Mary 
and  little  Jesus,  that  he  loved  to  talk  of  so  much." 

"  It's  fitten  " —  said  the  old  man  tenderly  —  "  it's 
fitten  an'  beautiful.  The  fust  burial  we  know  of  in  the 
Bible  is  where  Abraham  bought  the  cave  of  Machpelah 
for  to  bury  Sarah,  his  wife.  And  as  Abraham  bought 
it  of  Ephron,  the  Hittite,  and  offered  it  to  Abraham 
for  to  bury  his  dead  out  of  his  sight,  so  I  give  this  cave 
to  you,  Jack  Bracken,  forever  to  be  the  restin'  place  of 
little  Jack." 

And  so,  tenderly  and  with  many  kisses  did  they  burr 
little  Jack,  sinless  and  innocent,  deep  in  the  pure  white 
rock,  covered  as  he  was  with  purity  and  looking  ever 
upwards  toward  the  statue  above,  wherein  Nature's 
chisel  had  carved  out  a  Madonna  and  her  child. 


CHAPTER  XII 

JACK  BRACKEN 

JACK  BRACKEN  was  comfortably  fixed  in  his 
underground  home.  There  was  every  comfort 
for  living.  It  was  warm  in  winter  and  cool  in 
summer,  and  in  another  apartment  adjoining  his  living 
room  was  what  he  called  a  kitchen  in  which  a  spring 
of  pure  water,  trickling  down  from  rock  to  rock,  formed 
in  a  natural  basin  of  whitest  rock  below. 

"  Jack,"  said  the  old  man,  "won't  you  tell  me  about 
yo'self  an'  how  you  ever  got  down  to  this?  I  knowed 
you  as  a  boy,  up  to  the  time  you  went  into  the  army, 
an'  if  I  do  say  it  to  yo'  face,  you  were  a  brave  hon'rble 
boy  that  never  forgot  a  frien'  nor  — " 

"  A  foe,"  put  in  Jack  quickly.  "  Bishop,  if  I  cu'd 
only  forgive  my  foes  —  that's  been  the  ruin  of  me." 

"  The  old  man  was  thoughtful  a  while :  "  Jack,  that's 
a  terrible  thing  in  the  human  heart  —  unforgiveness. 
It's  to  life  what  a  drought  is  to  Nature  —  an'  it  spiles 
mo'  people  than  any  other  weakness.  But  that  don't 
make  yo'  no  wuss  than  the  rest  of  us,  nor  does  robbery 
nor  even  murder.  So  there's  a  chance  for  you  yet,  Jack 
—  a  mighty  fine  chance,  too,  sence  yo'  heart  is  changed." 

"  Many  a  time,  Jack,  many  a  time  when  the  paper 
'ud  be  full  of  yo'  holdin'  up  a  train  or  shootin'  a 
shar'ff,  or  robbin'  or  killin',  I'd  tell  'em  what  a  good 

127 


128         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

boy  you  had  been,  brave  an'  game  but  revengeful  when 
aroused.  I'd  tell  'em  how  you  dared  the  bullets  of 
our  own  men,  after  the  battle  of  Shiloh,  to  cut  down  an* 
carry  off  a  measley  little  Yankee  they'd  hung  up  as  a 
spy  'cause  he  had  onct  saved  yo'  father's  life.  You 
shot  two  of  our  boys  then,  Jack." 

"  They  was  a  shootin'  me,  too,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I 
caught  two  bullets  savin'  that  Yankee.  But  he  was  no 
spy ;  he  was  caught  in  a  Yankee  uniform  an' —  an'  he 
saved  my  father,  as  you  said  —  that  settled  it  with  me." 

"  It  turned  our  boys  agin  you,  Jack." 

"  Yes,  an'  the  Yankees  were  agin  me  already  —  that 
made  all  the  worl'  agin  me,  an'  it's  been  agin  me  ever 
since  —  they  made  me  an  outlaw." 

The  old  man  softened:  "How  was  it,  Jack?  I 
knowcd  you  was  driven  to  it." 

"  They  shot  my  father  —  waylaid  and  killed  him  — 
some  home-made  Yankee  bush-whackers  that  infested 
these  hills  —  as  you  know." 

The  Bishop  nodded.  "  I  know  —  I  know  —  it  was 
awful.  '  But  vengeance  is  mine  —  I  will  repay  ' —  saith 
the  Lord." 

"  Well,  I  was  young,  an'  my  father  —  you  know  how 
I  loved  him.  Befo'  I  c'ud  get  home  they  had  burned 
our  house,  killed  my  sick  mother  from  exposure  and 
insulted  my  sisters." 

"  Jack,"  said  the  old  man  hotly  —  "a  home-made 
Yankee  is  a  'bomination  to  the  Lord.  He's  a  twin 
brother  to  the  Copperhead  up  north." 

"  My  little  brother  —  they  might  have  spared  him," 
went  on  the  outlaw  — "  they  might  have  spared  him. 


JACK  BRACKEN  129 

He  tried  to  defen'  his  mother  an'  sisters  an'  they  shot 
him  down  in  col'  blood." 

"  '  Vengeance  is  mine,'  saith  the  Lord,"  replied  the 
old  man  sadly. 

"  Well,  I  acted  as  His  agent  that  time," —  his  eyes 
were  hot  with  a  bright  glitter.  "  I  put  on  their  uniform 
an'  went  after  'em.  I  j'ined  'em  —  the  devils!  An' 
they  had  a  nigger  sarjent  an'  ten  of  their  twenty -seven 
was  niggers,  wearin'  a  Yankee  uniform.  I  j'ined  'em  - 
yes, —  for  wasn't  I  the  agent  of  the  Lord  ?  "  He 
laughed  bitterly.  "An'  didn't  He  say:  'He  that 
killeth  with  the  sword  must  be  killed  with  the  sword.' 
One  by  one  they  come  up  missin',  till  I  had  killed  all  but 
seven.  These  got  panicky  —  followed  by  an  unknown 
doom  an'  they  c'udn't  see  it,  for  it  come  like  a  thief  at 
midnight  an'  agin  like  a  pesterlence  it  wasted  'em  at 
noonday.  They  separated  —  they  tried  to  fly  —  they 
hid  —  but  I  followed  'em  'an  I  got  all  but  one.  He  fled 
to  California." 

"  It  was  awful,  Jack  —  awful  —  God  he'p  you." 

"  Then  a  price  was  put  on  my  head.  I  was  Jack 
Bracken,  the  spy  and  the  outlaw.  I  was  not  to  be  cap 
tured,  but  shot  and  hung.  Then  I  cut  down  that  Yan 
kee  an'  you  all  turned  agin  me.  I  was  hunted  and 
hounded.  I  shot  —  they  shot.  I  killed  an'  they  tried 
to.  I  was  shot  down  three  times.  I've  got  bullets  in 
me  now. 

"  After  the  war  I  tried  to  surrender.  I  wanted  to  quit 
and  live  a  decent  life.  But  no,  they  put  a  bigger  price 
on  my  head.  I  came  home  like  other  soldiers  an'  went 
to  tillin'  my  farm.  They  ran  me  away  —  they  hunted 


130         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

an*    hounded   me.     Civilization   turned    ag'in    me.     So 
ciety  was  my  foe.     I  was  up  ag'in  the  fust  law  of  Na 
ture.     It  is  the  law  of  the  survival  —  the  wild  beast  that, 
cowered,  fights  for  his  life.      Society  turned  on  me  — 
I  turned  on  Society." 

"  But  there  was  one  thing  that  happen'd  that  put  the 
steel  in  me  wuss  than  all.  All  through  them  times  was 
one  star  I  loved  and  hoped  for.  I  was  to  marry  her 
when  the  war  closed.  She  an'  her  sister  —  the  pretty 
one  —  they  lived  up  yander  on  the  mountain  side.  The 
pretty  one  died.  But  when  I  lost  faith  in  Margaret 
Adams,  I  lost  it  in  mankind.  I'd  ruther  a  seen  her 
dead.  It  staggered  me  —  killed  the  soul  in  me  —  to 
think  that  an  angel  like  her  could  fall  an'  be  false." 

"  I  don't  blame  you,"  said  the  old  man.  "  I've  never 
understood  it  yet." 

"  I  was  to  marry  Margaret.     I  love  her  yet,"  he  added 
simply.     "  When  I  found  she  was  false  I  went  out  — 
and  —  well,  you  know  the  rest." 

He  took  a  turn  around  the  room,  picked  up  one  of 
little  Jack's  shoes,  and  cried  over  it. 

"  So  I  married  his  mother  —  little  Jack's  mother,  a 
mountain  lass  that  hid  me  and  befriended  me.  She 
died  when  the  boy  was  born.  His  granny  kep'  him 
while  I  was  on  my  raids  —  nobody  knowed  it  was  my 
son.  His  granny  died  two  years  ago.  This  has  been 
our  home  ever  sence,  an*  not  once,  sence  little  Jack  has 
been  with  me,  have  I  done  a  wrong  deed.  Often  an' 
often  we've  slipt  up  to  hear  you  preach  —  what  you've 
said  went  home  to  me." 

"  Jack,"  said  the  old  man  suddenly  aroused  — "  was 


JACK  BRACKEN  131 

that  you  —  was  it  you  been  puttin'  them  twenty  dollar 
gol'  pieces  in  the  church  Bible  —  between  the  leds, 
•ever'  month  for  the  las'  two  years?  By  it  I've  kep'  up 
the  po'  of  Cottontown.  I've  puzzled  an'  wonder'd  — 
I've  thought  of  a  dozen  fo'ks  —  but  I  sed  nothin'  — 
was  it  you  ?  " 

The  outlaw  smiled :  "  It  come  from  the  rich  an'  it 
went  to  the  po'.  Come,"  he  said  — "  that's  somethin' 
we  must  settle." 

He  took  up  the  lantern  and  led  the  way  into  the 
other  room.  Under  a  ledge  of  rocks,  securely  hid,  sat, 
in  rows,  half  a  dozen  common  water  buckets,  made  of 
red  cedar,  with  tops  fitting  securely  on  them. 

The  outlaw  spread  a  blanket  on  the  sand,  then  knelt 
and,  taking  up  a  bucket,  removed  the  top  and  poured  out 
its  contents  on  the  blanket.  They  chuckled  and  rolled 
and  tumbled  over  each  other,  the  yellow  eagles  and  half 
eagles,  like  thoroughbred  colts  turned  out  in  the  pad 
docks  for  a  romp. 

The  old  man's  knees  shook  under  him.  He  trembled 
so  that  he  had  to  sit  down  on  the  blanket.  Then  he 
ran  his  hand  through  them  —  his  fingers  open,  letting 
the  coins  fall  through  playfully. 

Never  before  had  he  seen  so  much  gold.  Poor  as  he 
was  and  had  ever  been  —  much  and  often  as  he  had  suf 
fered —  he  and  his,  for  the  necessities  of  life,  even, 
knowing  its  value  and  the  use  he  might  make  of  it,  it 
thrilled  him  with  a  strange,  nervous  longing  —  a  child 
ish  curiosity  to  handle  it  and  play  with  it. 

Modest  and  brave  men  have  looked  on  low-bosomed 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

women  in  the  glitter  of  dissipative  lights  with  the  same 
feeling. 

The  old  man  gazed,  silent  —  doubtless  with  the  same 
awe  which  Keats  gave  to  Cortez,  when  he  first  looked 
on  the  Pacific  and  stood 

"  Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien." 

The  outlaw  lifted  another  bucket  and  took  off  the 
lid.  It  also  was  full.  "  There  are  five  mo',"  he  said  - 
"  that  last  one  is  silver  an'  this  one  -  He  lifted  the 
lid  of  a  small  cedar  box.  In  it  was  a  large  package, 
wrapped  in  water-proof.  Unravelling  it,  he  shoved  out 
packages  of  bank  bills  of  such  number  and  denomination 
as  fairly  made  the  old  preacher  wonder. 

"  How  much  in  all,  Jack?  " 

"  A  little  the  rise  of  one  hundred  thousand  dollars." 

He  pushed  them  back  and  put  the  buckets  under  their 
ledge  of  rocks.  "  I'd  give  it  all  just  to  have  little  Jack 
here  agin  —  an' —  an' —  start  cut  —  a  new  man.  This 
has  cost  me  ten  years  of  outlawry  an'  fo'teen  bullets. 
Now  I've  got  all  this  an' —  well  —  a  hole  in  the  groun' 
an'  little  Jack  in  the  hole.  If  you  wanter  preach  a  ser 
mon  en  the  folly  of  pilin'  up  money,"  he  went  on  half 
ironically,  "here  is  yo'  tex'.  All  me  an'  little  Jack 
needed  or  cu'd  use,  was  a  few  clothes,  some  bac'n  an' 
coffee  an'  flour.  Often  I'd  fill  my  pockets  an'  say: 
'  Well,  I'll  buy  somethin'  I  want,  an'  that  little  Jack  will 
want.  I'd  go  to  town  an'  see  it  all,  an'  think  an'  puzzle 
an'  wonder  —  then  I'd  come  home  with  &  few  toys,  may 
be,  an'  bac'n  an'  flour  an'  coffee." 

"  With  all  our  money  we  can't  buy  higher  than  our 


JACK  BRACKEN  133 

source,  an'  when  we  go  we  leave  even  that  behind,"  he 
added. 

"  The  world,"  said  the  old  man  quaintly,  "  is  full  of 
folks  who  have  got  a  big  pocket-book  an'  a  bac'n  pedi- 
gree." 

"  Do  you  know  who  this  money  belongs  to  ?  "  he  asked 
the  outlaw. 

"  Every  dollar  of  it,"  said  Jack  Bracken.  "  It  come 
from  railroads,  banks  and  express  companies.  I  didn't 
feel  squirmish  about  takin'  it,  for  all  o'  them  are  robbers. 
The  only  difPr'nce  betwix'  them  an'  me  is  that  they 
rob  a  little  every  day,  till  they  get  their  pile,  an'  I  take 
mine  from  'em,  all  at  onct." 

He  thought  awhile,  then  he  said :  "  But  it  must  all 
go  back  to  'em,  Jack.  Let  them  answer  for  their  own 
sins.  Leave  it  here  until  next  week  —  an'  then  we  will 
come  an'  haul  it  fifty  miles  to  the  next  town,  where  you 
can  express  it  to  them  without  bein'  known,  or  havin' 
anybody  kno'  what's  in  the  buckets  till  you're  safe  back 
here  in  this  town.  I'll  fix  it  an'  the  note  you  are  to 
write.  They'll  not  pester  you  after  they  get  their 
money.  The  crowd  you've  named  never  got  hot  under 
a  gold  collar.  A  clean  shave  will  change  you  so  nobody 
will  suspect  you,  an'  there's  a  good  openin'  in  town  for 
a  blacksmith,  an'  you  can  live  with  me  in  my  cabin." 

"  But  there's  one  thing  I've  kept  back  for  the  las'," 
said  Jack,  after  they  had  gone  into  the  front  part  of  the 
room  and  sat  down  on  the  deer  skins  there. 

"  That  sword  there  " —  and  he  pointed  to  the  wall 
where  it  hung. 

The  Bishop  glanced  up,  and  as  he  did  so  he  felt  a 


134         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

strange   thrill    of   recognition   run   through   him  — "  It 
belongs  to  Cap'n  Tom,"  said  Jack  quietly. 

The  old  man  sprang  up  and  took  it  reverently,  fondly 
down. 

"  Jack  —    '  he  began. 

"  I  was  at  F»*Hnklin,"  went  on  Jack  proudly.  "  I 
charged  with  old  Gen.  Travis  over  the  breastworks  near 
the  Carter  House.  I  saw  Cap'n  Tom  when  he  went 
under." 

"  Cap'n  Tom,"  repeated  the  old  man  slowly. 

"  Cap'n  Tom,  yes  —  he  saved  my  life  once,  you  know. 
He  cut  me  down  when  they  were  about  to  hang  me  for  a 
spy  —  you  heard  about  it?" 

The  Bishop  nodded. 

"  It  was  his  Company  that  caught  me  an'  they  was 
glad  of  any  excuse  to  hang  me.  An'  they  mighty  nigh 
done  it,  but  Cap'n  Tom  came  up  in  time  to  cut  me  down 
an'  he  said  he'd  make  it  hot  for  any  man  that  teched  me. 
that  I  was  a  square  prisoner  of  war,  an'  he  sent  me  to 
Johnson  Island.  Of  course  it  didn't  take  me  long  to 
get  out  of  that  hole  —  I  escaped." 

The  Bishop  was  silent,  looking  at  the  sword. 

"  Well,  at  Franklin,  when  I  seed  Cap'n  Tom  dyin'  as 
I  tho'rt,  shunned  by  the  Yankees  as  a  traitor - 

"As  a  traitor?"  asked  the  old  man  hotly  — "  what, 
after  Shiloh  —  after  he  give  up  Miss  Alice  for  the  flag 
he  loved  an'  his  old  grand  sire  an'  The  Gaffs  an'  all  of 
us  that  loved  him  —  you  call  that  a  traitor?  " 

"  You  never  heard,"  said  Jack,  "  how  old  Gen'l  Tra 
vis  charged  the  breastworks  at  Franklin  and  hit  the  line 
where  Cap'n  Tom's  battery  stood.  Nine  times  they 


JACK  BRACKEN  T35 

had   charged    Cap'n   Tom's   battery   that   night  —  nine 
times  he  stood  his  ground  an'  they  melted  away  around 
it.     But  when  he  saw  the  line  led  by  his  own  grand-sire 
the  blood  in  him  was  thicker  than  water  and  — " 
"  An'  whut?  "  gasped  the  Bishop. 
"  Well,  why  they  say  it  was  a  drunken  soldier  in  his 
own  battery  who  struck  him  with  the  heavy  hilt  of  a 
sword.     Any  way  I  found  the  old  Gen'l  cryin'  over  him : 
6  My    Irish    Gray  —  my    Irish    Gray,'    he    kept    sayin'. 
'  I  might  have  known  it  was  you,'   and  the  old  Gen'l 
charged  on  leaving  him  for  dead.     An'  so  I  found  him- 
an'  tuck  him  in  my  arms  an'  carried  him  to  my  own 
cabin  up  yonder  on  the  mountain  —  carried  him  an'  — " 
"  An'  whut?  "  -  asked  the  old  man,  grasping  the  out 
law's    shoulder — "Didn't    he    die?     We've    never    been 
able  to  hear  from  him." 

Jack  shook  his  head.  "  It  'ud  been  better  for  him  if 
he  had  "  -  and  he  touched  his  forehead  significantly. 

"  Tell  me,  Jack  —  quick  —  tell  it  all,"  exclaimed  the 
old  man,  still  gripping  Jack's  shoulder. 

"  There's  nothin'  to  tell  except  that  I  kept  him  ever 
sence  —  here  —  right  here  for  two  years,  with  little 
Jack  an'  Ephrum,  the  young  nigger  that  was  his  body 
servant  —  he's  been  our  cook  an'  servant.  He  never 
would  leave  Cap'n  Tom,  followed  me  offen  the  field  of 
Franklin.  An'  mighty  fond  of  each  other  was  all  three 


em. 


The  old  man  turned  pale  and  his  voice  trembled  so 
with  excitement  he  could  hardly  say : 

"Where  is  he,  Jack?  My  God  —  Cap'n  Tom  — 
he's  been  here  all  this  time  too  —  an'  me  awonderin' — " 


136         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  Right  here,  Bishop  —  kind  an'  quiet  and  teched  in 
his  head,  where  the  sword-hilt  crushed  his  skull.  All 
these  years  I've  cared  for  him  —  me  an'  Ephrum,  my 
two  boys  as  I  called  'em  —  him  an'  little  Jack.  An' 
right  here  he  staid  contented  like  till  little  Jack  died 
last  night  —  then  — " 

"  In  God's  name  —  quick !  —  tell  me  —  Jack  — " 

"  That's  the  worst  of  it  —  Bishop  —  when  he  found 
little  Jack  was  dead  he  wandered  off — " 

"  When  ?  "  almost  shouted  the  old  man. 

"  To-day  —  this  even'.  I  have  sent  Eph  after  him 
—  an'  I  hope  he  has  found  him  by  now  an'  tuck  him 
somewhere.  Eph'll  never  stop  till  he  does." 

"  We  must  find  him,  Jack.  Cap'n  Tom  alive  — 
thank  God  —  alive,  even  if  he  is  teched  in  his  head. 
Oh,  God,  I  might  a  knowed  it  —  an'  only  to-day  I  was 
doubtin'  You." 

He  fell  on  his  knees  and  Jack  stood  awed  in  the  pres 
ence  of  the  great  emotion  which  shook  the  old  man. 

Finally  he  arose.  "  Come  —  Jack  —  let  us  go  an' 
hunt  for  Cap'n  Tom." 

But  though  they  hunted  until  the  moon  went  down 
they  found  no  trace  of  him.  For  miles  they  walked,  or 
took  turn  about  in  riding  the  old  blind  roan. 

"  It's  no  use,  Bishop,"  said  Jack.  "  We  will  sleep 
a  while  and  begin  to-morrow.  Besides,  Eph  is  with  him. 
I  feel  it  —  he'll  take  keer  o'  him." 

That  is  how  it  came  that  at  midnight,  that  Saturday 
night,  the  old  Bishop  brought  home  a  strange  man  to 
live  in  the  little  cabin  in  his  yard. 

That  is  how,  a  week  later,  all  the  South  was  stirred 


JACK  BRACKEN  137 

over  the  strange  return  of  a  fortune  to  the  different 
corporations  from  which  it  had  been  taken,  accompanied 
by  a  drawling  note  from  Jack  Bracken  saying  he  re 
turned  ill-gotten  gain  to  live  a  better  life. 

It  ended  laconically : 

"  An*  maybe  you'd  better  go  an9  do  likewise." 

The  dim  starlight  was  shining  faintly  through  the 
cracks  of  the  outlaw's  future  home  when  the  old  man 
showed  him  in. 

"  Now,  Jack,"  he  said,  "  it's  nearly  mornin'  an'  the 
old  woman  may  be  wild  an'  raise  sand.  But  learn  to  lay 
low  an'  shoe  bosses.  She  was  bohn  disapp'inted  — 
maybe  because  she  wa'n't  a  boy,"  he  whispered. 

There  was  a  whinny  outside,  in  a  small  paddock, 
where  a  nearby  stable  stood:  "That's  Cap'n  Tom's 
horse,"  said  the  old  man  — "  I  mus'  go  see  if  he's  hun 
gry." 

"  I've  kept  his  horse  these  ten  years,  hopin'  maybe 
he'd  come  back  agin.  It's  John  Paul  Jones  —  the  thor 
oughbred,  that  the  old  General  give  him." 

"  I  remember  him,"  said  Jack. 

The  great  bloodlike  horse  came  up  and  rubbed  his 
nose  on  the  old  man's  shoulder. 

"Hungry,  John  Paul?" 

"  It's  been  a  job  to  get  feed  fur  him,  po'  as  I've  been 
—  but  —  but  —  he's  Cap'n  Tom's.  You  kno' — " 

"  An'  Cap'n  Tom  will  ride  him  yet,"  said  Jack. 

"  Do  you  believe  it,  Jack  ?  "  asked  the  old  man  husk 
ily  — "  God  be  praised !  " 

That  Saturday  night  was  one  never  to  be  forgotten 


1S8         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

by  others  beside  Jack  Bracken  and  the  old  preacher  of 
Cottontown. 

When  Helen  Conway,  after  supper,  sought  her 
drunken  father  and  learned  that  he  really  intended  to 
have  Lily  and  herself  go  into  the  cotton  mills,  she  was 
cnished  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

An  hour  later  she  sent  a  boy  with  a  note  to  The  Gaffs 
to  Harr}^  Travis. 

He  brought  back  an  answer  that  made  her  pale  with 
wounded  love  and  grief.  Not  even  Mammy  Maria 
knew  why  she  had  crept  off  to  bed.  But  in  the  night 
the  old  woman  heard  sobs  from  the  young  girl's  room 
where  she  and  her  sister  slept. 

"What  is  it,  chile?"  she  asked  as  she  slipped  from 
her  own  cot  in  the  adjoining  little  room  and  went  in  to 
Helen's. 

The  girl  had  been  weeping  all  night  —  she  had  no 
mother  —  no  one  to  whom  she  could  unbosom  her  heart 
—  no  one  but  the  old  woman  who  had  nursed  her  from 
her  infancy.  This  kind  old  creature  sat  on  the  bed  and 
held  the  girl's  sobbing  head  on  her  lap  and  stroked  her 
cheek.  She  knew  and  understood  —  she  asked  no  ques 
tions  : 

"  It  isn't  that  I  must  work  in  the  mill,"  she  sobbed 
to  the  old  woman  — "  I  can  do  that  —  anything  to  help 
out  —  but  —  but  —  to  think  that  Harry  loves  me  so 
little  as  to  give  me  up  for  —  for  —  that." 

"  Don't  cry,  chile,"  said  Mammy  soothingly  — "  It 
ain't  registered  that  you  gwine  wuck  in  that  mill  yit  — 
I  ain't  made  my  afferdavit  yit." 

"  But  Harry  doesn't  love  me  —  Oh,  he  doesn't  love 


JACK  BRACKEN  139 

me,"  she  wept.  "  He  would  not  give  me  up  for  any 
thing  if  he  did." 

"  I'm  gwine  give  that  Marse  Harry  a  piece  of  my 
mind  when  I  see  him  —  see  if  I  don't.  Don't  you  cry, 
chile  —  hold  up  yo'  haid  an'  be  a  Conway.  Don't  you 
ever  let  him  know  that  yo'  heart  is  bustin'  for  him  an* 
fo'  the  year  is  out  we'll  have  that  same  Marse  Harry 
acrawlin'  on  his  very  marrow  bones  to  aix  our  forgive 
ness.  See  if  we  won't." 

It  was  poor  consolation  to  the  romantic  spirit  of  Helen 
Conway.  Daylight  found  her  still  heart-broken  and 
sobbing  in  the  old  woman's  lap. 


PART  THIRD  — THE  GIN 


141 


CHAPTER  I 

ALICE   WESTMORE 

IT  is  remarkable  how  small  a  part  of  our  real  life  the 
world  knows  —  how  little  our  most  intimate  friends 
know  of  the  secret  influences  which  have  proven  to 
be  climaxes,  at  the  turning  points  of  our  existence. 

There  was  no  more  beautiful  woman  in  Alabama  than 
Alice  Westmore;  and  throughout  that  state,  where  the 
song  birds  seem  to  develop,  naturally,  along  with  the 
softness  of  the  air,  and  the  gleam  of  the  sunshine,  and 
the  lullaby  of  the  Gulf's  soft  breeze  among  the  pine 
trees,  there  was  no  one,  they  say,  who  could  sing  as  she 
sang. 

And  she  seemed  to  have  caught  it  from  her  native 
mocking-birds,  so  natural  was  it.  Not  when  they  sing 
in  the  daylight,  when  everything  is  bright  and  joyous 
and  singing  is  so  easy ;  but  when  they  waken  at  mid 
night  amid  the  arbor  vitce  trees,  and  under  the  sweet, 
sad  influence  of  a  winter  moon,  pour  out  their  half 
awakened  notes  to  the  star-sprays  which  fall  in  mist  to 
blend  and  sparkle  around  the  soft  neck  of  the  night. 

For  like  the  star-sprays  her  notes  were  as  clear;  and 
through  them  ran  a  sadness  as  of  a  mist  of  moonlight. 
And  just  as  moonbeams,  when  they  mingle  with  the 
mist,  make  the  melancholy  of  night,  so  the  memory  of 

143 


144         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

a  dead  love  ran  through  everything  Alice  Westmore 
sang. 

And  this  made  her  singing  divine. 

Why  should  it  be  told?  What  right  has  a  blacksmith 
to  pry  into  a  grand  piano  to  find  out  wherein  the  ex 
quisite  harmony  of  the  instrument  lies?  Who  has  the 
right  to  ask  the  artist  how  he  blended  the  colors  that 
crowned  his  picture  with  immortality,  or  the  poet  to 
explain  his  pain  in  the  birth  of  a  mood  which  moved  the 
world  ? 

Born  in  the  mountains  of  North  Alabama,  she  grew 
up  there  and  developed  this  rare  voice;  and  when  her 
father  sent  her  to  Italy  to  complete  her  musical  educa 
tion,  the  depth  and  clearness  of  it  captured  even  that 
song-nation  of  the  world. 

The  great  of  all  countries  were  her  friends  and  princes 
sought  her  favors.  She  sang  at  courts  and  in  great 
cathedrals,  and  her  genius  and  beauty  were  toasts  with 
society. 

"  Still,  Mademoiselle  will  never  be  a  great  singer, 
perfect  as  her  voice  is," — said  her  singing  master  to 
her  one  day  —  a  famous  Italian  teacher,  "  until  Ma 
demoiselle  has  suffered.  She  is  now  rich  and  beautiful 
and  happy.  Go  home  and  suffer  if  you  would  be  a 
great  singer,"  he  said,  "  for  great  songs  come  only  with 
great  suffering." 

If  this  were  true,  Alice  Westmore  was  now,  indeed,  a 
great  singer;  for  now  had  she  suffered.  And  it  was 
the  death  of  a  life  with  her  when  love  died.  For  there 
be  some  with  whom  love  is  a  separate  life,  and  when  love 
dies  all  that  is  worth  living  dies  with  it. 


ALICE  WESTMORE  145 

From  childhood  she  and  Cousin  Tom  —  Captain 
Thomas  Travis  he  lived  to  be  —  had  been  sweethearts. 
He  was  the  grandson  of  Colonel  Jeremiah  Travis  of 
u  The  Gaffs,"  and  Tom  and  Alice  had  grown  up  to 
gether.  Their  love  was  one  of  those  earthly  loves  which 
comes  now  and  then  that  we  may  not  altogether  lose  our 
faith  in  heaven. 

Both  were  of  a  romantic  temperament  with  high  ideals, 
and  with  keen  and  sensitive  natures. 

Their  love  was  the  poem  of  their  lives. 

And  though  a  toast  in  society,  and  courted  by  the 
nobility  of  the  old  world,  Alice  Westmore  remembered 
only  a  moon-lighted  night  when  she  told  Cousin  Tom 
good-bye.  For  though  they  had  loved  each  other  all 
their  lives,  they  had  never  spoken  of  it  before  that  night. 
To  them  it  had  been  a  thing  too  sacred  to  profane  with 
ordinary  words. 

Thomas  Travis  had  just  graduated  from  West  Point, 
and  he  was  at  home  on  vacation  before  being  assigned 
to  duty.  To-night  he  had  ridden  John  Paul  Jones  — 
the  pick  of  his  grandfather's  stable  of  thoroughbreds  — 
a  present  from  the  sturdy  old  horse-racing,  fox-hunting 
gentleman  to  his  favorite  grandson  for  graduating  first 
in  a  class  of  fifty-six. 

How  handsome  he  looked  in  his  dark  blue  uniform! 

And  there  was  the  music  of  the  crepe-myrtle  in  the  air 

-the  music  of  it,  wet  with  the  night  dew  —  for  there 

are  flowers  so  delicate  in  their  sweetness  that  they  pass 

out  of  the  realm  of  sight  and  smell,  into  the  unheard 

world  of  rhythm.     Their  very  existence  is  the  poetry  of 

perfume.     And  this  music  of  the  crepe-myrtle,  pulsing 

10 


146         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

through  the  shower-cooled  leaves  of  that  summer  night, 
was  accompanied  by  a  mocking-bird  from  his  nest  in 
the  tree. 

Never  did  the  memory  of  that  night  leave  Alice  West- 
more.  In  after  years  it  hurt  her,  as  the  dream  of  child 
hood's  home  with  green  fields  about,  and  the  old  spring 
in  the  meadow,  hurts  the  fever-stricken  one  dying  far 
away  from  it  all. 

How  long  they  sat  on  the  rustic  bench  under  the 
crepe-myrtle  they  did  not  know.  At  parting  there  was 
the  light  clasp  of  hands,  and  Cousin  Tom  drew  her  to 
him  and  put  his  lips  reverently  to  hers.  When  he  had 
ridden  off  there  was  a  slender  ring  on  her  finger. 

There  was  nothing  in  Italy  that  could  make  her  for 
get  that  night,  though  often  from  her  window  she 
had  looked  out  on  Venice,  moon-becalmed,  while  the 
nightingale  sang  from  pomegranate  trees  in  the  hedge 
rows. 

Where  a  woman's  love  is  first  given,  that,  thereafter, 
is  her  heart's  sanctuary. 

Alice  Westmore   landed   at   home   again   amid   drum 
beats.     War  sweeps  even  sentiment  from  the  world  - 
sentiment  that  is  stronger  than  common  sense,  and  which 
moves  the  world. 

On  the  retreat  of  the  Southern  army  from  Fort  Don- 
elson,  Thomas  Travis,  now  Captain  of  Artillery,  fol 
lowed,  with  Grant's  army,  to  Pittsburg  Landing.  And 
finding  himself  within  a  day's  journey  of  his  old  home, 
he  lost  no  time  in  slipping  through  the  lines  to  see  Alice, 
whom  he  had  not  seen  since  her  return. 


ALICE  WESTMORE  147 

He  went  first  to  her,  and  the  sight  of  his  blue  uniform 
threw  Colonel  Westmore  into  a  rage. 

"  To  march  into  our  land  in  that  thing  and  claim  my 
daughter-  "  he  shouted.  "  To  join  that  John  Brown 
gang  of  abolitionists  who  are  trying  to  overrun  our 
country!  Your  father  was  a  Southern  gentleman  and 
the  bosom  friend  of  my  youth,  but  I'll  see  you  damned 
before  you  shall  ever  again  come  under  my  roof,  unless 
you  can  use  your  pistols  quicker  than  I  can  use  mine." 

"  Oh,  Tom,"  said  Alice  when  they  were  alone  — "  how 
—  how  could  you  do  it?  " 

"  But  it  is  my  side,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  was  born, 
reared,  educated  in  the  love  of  the  Union.  My  grand 
father  himself  taught  it  to  me.  He  fought  with  Jack 
son  at  New  Orleans.  My  father  died  for  it  in  Mexico. 
I  swore  fidelity  to  it  at  West  Point,  and  the  Union 
gave  me  my  military  education  on  the  faith  of  my 
oath.  Farragut  is  a  Tennessean  —  Thomas  a  Virgin 
ian  —  and  there  are  hundreds  of  others,  men  who  love 
the  Union  more  than  they  do  their  State.  Alice  — 
Alice  —  I  do  not  love  you  less  because  I  am  true  to 
my  oath  —  my  flag." 

"  Your  flag,"  said  Alice  hotly  — "  your  flag  that 
would  overrun  our  country  and  kill  our  people?  It  can 
never  be  my  flag !  " 

She  had  never  been  angry  before  in  all  her  life,  but 
now  the  hot  blood  of  her  Southern  clime  and  ancestry 
surged  in  her  cheeks.  She  arose  with  a  dignity  she  had 
never  before  imagined,  even,  with  Cousin  Tom.  "  You 
will  choose  between  us  now,"  she  said. 

"  Alice  —  surely  you  will  not  put  me  to  that  test.     I 


148         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

will  go  — "  he  said,  rising.  "  Some  day,  if  I  live,  you 
can  tell  me  to  come  back  to  you  without  sacrificing  my 
conscience  and  my  word*  of  honor  —  my  sacred  oath  — 
write  me  and  —  and  —  I  will  come." 

And  that  is  the  way  it  ended  —  in  tears  for  both. 

Thomas  Travis  had  always  been  his  grandsire's  favor 
ite.  His  other  grandson,  Richard  Travis,  was  away  in 
Europe,  where  he  had  gone  as  soon  as  rumors  of  the  war 
began  to  be  heard. 

That  night  the  old  man  did  not  even  speak  to  him. 
He  could  not.  Alone  in  his  room,  he  walked  the  floor 
all  night  in  deep  sorrow  and  thought. 

He  loved  Thomas  Travis  as  he  did  no  other  living 
being,  and  when  morning  came  his  great  nature  shook 
with  contending  emotions.  It  ended  in  the  grandson 
receiving  this  note,  a  few  minutes  before  he  rode  away : 

"  All  my  life  I  taught  you  to  love  the  Union  which 
I  helped  to  make,  with  my  blood  in  war  and  my  brains 
in  peace.  I  gave  it  my  beloved  boy  —  your  father's  life 
—  in  Mexico.  We  buried  him  in  its  flag.  I  sent  you 
to  West  Point  and  made  you  swear  to  defend  that  flag 
with  your  life.  How  now  can  I  ask  you  to  repudiate 
your  oath  and  turn  your  back  on  your  rearing? 

"  Believing  as  I  do  in  the  right  of  the  State  first  and 
the  Union  afterwards,  I  had  hoped  you  might  see  it 
differently.  But  who,  but  God,  controls  the  course  of 
an  honest  mind? 

"  Go,  my  son  —  I  shall  never  see  you  again.  But  I 
know  you,  my  son,  and  I  shall  die  knowing  you  did 
what  you  thought  was  right." 

The  young  man   wept  when .  he  read  this  —  he  was 


ALICE  WESTMORE 

neither  too  old  nor  too  hardened  for  tears  —  and  when 
he  rode  away,  from  the  ridge  of  the  Mountain  he 
looked  down  again  —  the  last  time,  on  all  that  had  been 
his  life's  happiness. 

It  was  an  hour  afterwards  when  the  old  General  called 
in  his  overseer. 

"  Watts,"  he  said,  "  in  the  accursed  war  which  is  about 
to  wreck  the  South  and  which  will  eventually  end  in 
our  going  back  into  the  Union  as  a  subdued  province 
and  under  the  heel  of  our  former  slaves,  there  will  be 
many  changes.  I,  myself,  will  not  live  to  see  it.  I  have 
two  grandsons,  as  you  know,  Tom  and  Richard.  Rich 
ard  is  in  Europe;  he  went  there  following  Alice  West- 
more,  and  is  going  to  stay,  till  this  fight  is  over.  Now, 
I  have  added  a  codicil  to  my  will  and  I  wish  you  to 
hear  it." 

He  took  up  a  lengthy  document  and  read  the  last 
codicil : 

"  Since  the  above  will  was  written  and  acknowledged, 
leaving  The  Gaffs  to  be  equally  divided  between  my  two 
grandsons,  Thomas  and  Richard  Trows,  my  country 
has  been  precipitated  into  the  horrors  of  Civil  War. 
In  view  of  this  I  hereby  change  my  will  as  above  and 
give  and  bequeath  The  Gaffs  to  that  one  of  my  grand 
sons  who  shall  fight  —  it  matters  not  to  me  on  which 
side  —  so  that  he  fights.  For  The  Gaffs  shall  never  go 
to  a  DominecJcer.  If  both  fight  and  survive  tlie  war, 
it  shall  be  divided  equally  between  them  as  above  ex 
pressed.  If  one  be  killed  it  shall  go  to  the  survivor.  If 
both  be  killed  it  shall  be  sold  and  the  money  appro^- 
priated  among  those  of  my  slaves  who  have  been  faithful 


150         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

to  me  to  the  end,  one-fifth  being  set  aside  for  my  faithful 
overseer,  HUMard  Watts." 

In  the  panel  of  the  wall  he  opened  a  small  secret 
drawer,  zinc-lined,  and  put  the  will  in  it. 

"  It  shall  remain  there  unchanged,"  he  said,  "  and 
only  you  and  I  shall  know  where  it  is.  If  I  die  sud 
denly,  let  it  remain  until  after  the  war,  and  then  do  as 
you  think  best." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    REAL,   HEROES 

f  |  ^  HE  real  heroes  of  the  war  have  not  been  decor 
ated  yet.  They  have  not  even  been  pensioned, 
for  many  of  them  lie  in  forgotten  graves,  and 
those  who  do  not  are  not  the  kind  to  clamor  for  honors 
or  emoluments. 

On  the  last  Great  Day,  what  a  strange  awakening  for 
decorations  there  will  be,  if  such  be  in  store  for  the  just 
and  the  brave:  Private  soldiers,  blue  and  gray,  aris 
ing  from  neglected  graves  with  tattered  clothes  and  un 
marked  brows.  Scouts  who  rode,  with  stolid  faces  set, 
into  Death's  grim  door  and  died  knowing  they  went  out 
unremembered.  Spies,  hung  like  common  thieves  at  the 
end  of  a  rope  —  hung,  though  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 

Privates,  freezing,  starving,  wounded,  dying, —  un 
loved,  unsoothed,  unpitied  —  giving  their  life  with  a 
last  smile  in  the  joy  of  martyrdom.  Women,  North, 
whose  silent  tears  for  husbands  who  never  came  back 
and  sons  who  died  of  shell  and  fever,  make  a  tiara 
around  the  head  of  our  reunited  country.  Women, 
South,  glorious  Rachels,  weeping  for  children  who  are 
not  and  with  brave  hearts  working  amid  desolate  homes, 
the  star  and  inspiration  of  a  rebuilded  land.  Slaves, 
faithfully  guarding  and  working  while  their  masters 
went  to  the  front,  filling  the  granaries  that  the  war 

151 


152         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

might  go  on  —  faithful  to  their  trust  though  its  success 
meant  their  slavery  —  faithful  and  true. 

O  Southland  of  mine,  be  gentle,  be  just  to  these  sim 
ple  people,  for  they  also  were  faithful. 

Among  the  heroic  things  the  four  years  of  the  Amer 
ican  Civil  War  brought  out,  the  story  of  Captain 
Thomas  Travis  deserves  to  rank  with  the  greatest  of 
them. 

The  love  of  Thomas  Travis  for  the  preacher-overseer 
was  the  result  of  a  life  of  devotion  on  the  part  of  the 
old  man  for  the  boy  he  had  reared.  Orphaned  as  he  was 
early  in  life,  Thomas  Travis  looked  up  to  the  overseer 
of  his  grandfather's  plantation  as  a  model  of  all  that 
was  great  and  good. 

Tom  and  Alice, —  on  the  neighboring  plantations  — 
ran  wild  over  the  place  and  rode  their  ponies  always  on 
the  track  of  the  overseer.  He  taught  them  to  ride,  to 
trap  the  rabbit,  to  boat  on  the  beautiful  river.  He 
knew  the  birds  and  the  trees  and  all  the  wild  things  of 
Nature,  and  Tom  and  Alice  were  his  children. 

As  they  grew  up  before  him,  it  became  the  dream  of 
the  preacher-overseer  to  see  his  two  pets  married. 
Imagine  his  sorrow  when  the  war  fell  like  a  thunder 
bolt  out  of  a  harvest  sky  and,  among  the  thousand  of 
other  wrecked  dreams,  went  the  dream  of  the  overseer. 

The  rest  is  soon  told:  After  the  battle  of  Shiloh, 
Hilliard  Watts,  Chief  of  Johnston's  scouts,  was  captured 
and  sent  to  Camp  Chase.  Scarcely  had  he  arrived  be 
fore  orders  came  that  twelve  prisoners  should  be  shot, 
by  lot,  in  retaliation  for  the  same  number  of  Federal 
prisoners  which  had  been  executed,  it  was  said,  unjustly, 


THE  REAL  HEROES  153 

by  Confederates.  The  overseer  drew  one  of  the  black 
balls.  Then  happened  one  of  those  acts  of  heroism 
which  now  and  then  occur,  perhaps,  to  redeem  war  of 
the  base  and  bloody. 

On  the  morning  before  the  execution,  at  daylight, 
Thomas  Travis  arrived  and  made  arrangements  to  save 
his  friend  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life  and  reputation.  It 
was  a  desperate  chance  and  he  acted  quickly.  For  Hil- 
liard  Watts  went  out  a  free  man  dressed  in  the  blue  uni 
form  of  the  Captain  of  Artillery. 

The  interposition  of  the  great-hearted  Lincoln  alone 
saved  the  young  officer  from  being  shot. 

The  yellow  military  order  bearing  the  words  of  the 
martyred  President  is  preserved  to-day  in  the  library  of 
The  Gaffs : 

"  /  present  this  young  man  as  a  Christmas  gift  to  my 
old  friend,  his  grandsire,  Colonel  Jeremiah  Travis. 
The  man  'who  could  fight  his  guns  as  he  did  at  Shiloh, 
and  could  offer  to  die  for  a  friend,  is  good  enough  to 
receive  pardon,  for  anything  he  may  have  done  or  may 
do,  from  A.  LINCOLN." 

Afterwards  came  Franklin  and  the  news  that  Captain 
Tom  had  been  killed. 


CHAPTER  III 

FRANKLIN 

BUT  General  Jeremiah  Travis  could  not  keep  out  of 
the  war;  for  toward  the  last,  when  Hood's  army 
marched  into  Tennessee  the  Confederacy  called 
for  everything  —  even  old  age. 

And  so  there  rode  out  of  the  gates  of  The  Gaffs  a 
white-haired  old  man,  who  sat  his  superb  horse  well. 
He  was  followed  by  a  negro  on  a  mule. 

They  were  General  Jeremiah  Travis  and  his  body- 
servant,  Bisco. 

"  I  have  come  to  fight  for  my  state,"  said  General 
Travis  to  the  Confederate  General. 

"  An'  I  am  gwine  to  take  keer  of  old  marster  suh," 
said  Bisco  as  he  stuck  to  his  saddle  girth. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  of  the  last  day  of 
November  —  and  also  the  last  day  of  many  a  gallant 
life  —  when  Hood's  tired  army  marched  over  the  brow 
of  the  high  ridge  of  hills  that  looked  down  on  the  town 
of  Franklin,  in  front  of  which,  from  railroad  to  river, 
behind  a  long  semicircular  breastwork  lay  Schoficld's 
determined  army.  It  was  a  beautiful  view,  and  as  plain 
as  looking  down  from  the  gallery  into  the  pit  of  an 
amphitheatre. 

Just  below  them  lay  the  little  town  in  a  valley,  ad 
mirably  situated  for  defense,  surrounded  as  it  was  on 

154 


FRANKLIN  155 

three  sides  by  the  bend  of  a  small  river,  the  further 
banks  of  which  were  of  solid  rocks  rising  above  the  town. 
On  the  highest  of  these  bluffs  —  Roper's  Knob  —  across 
and  behind  the  town,  directly  overlooking  it  and  grimly 
facing  Hood's  army  two  miles  away,  was  a  federal  fort 
capped  with  mighty  guns,  ready  to  hurl  their  shells  over 
the  town  at  the  gray  lines  beyond.  From  the  high  ridge 
where  Hood's  army  stood  the  ground  gradually  rolled 
to  the  river.  A  railroad  ran  through  a  valley  in  the 
ridge  to  the  right  of  the  Confederates,  spun  along  on 
the  banks  of  the  river  past  the  town  and  crossed  it  in 
the  heart  of  the  bend  to  the  left  of  the  federal  fort. 
From  that  railroad  on  the  Confederate  right,  in  front 
and  clear  around  the  town,  past  an  old  gin  house  which 
stood  out  clear  and  distinct  in  the  November  sunlight  - 
on  past  the  Carter  House,  to  the  extreme  left  bend  of  the 
river  on  the  left  —  in  short,  from  river  to  river  again 
and  entirely  inclosing  the  town  and  facing  the  enemy 
-  ran  the  newly  made  and  hastily  thrown-up  breast 
works  of  the  federal  army,  the  men  rested  and  ready  for 
battle. 

There  stands  to-day,  as  it  stood  then,  in  front  of  the 
town  of  Franklin,  on  the  highest  point  of  the  ridge,  a 
large  linden  tree,  now  showing  the  effects  of  age.  It 
was  half-past  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when  Gen 
eral  Hood  rode  unattended  to  that  tree,  threw  the  stump 
of  the  leg  that  was  shot  off  at  Chickamauga  over  the 
pommel  of  his  saddle,  drew  out  his  field  glasses  and  sat 
looking  for  a  long  time  across  the  valley  at  the  enemy's 
position. 

Strange  to  say,  on  the  high  river  bluff  beyond  the 


156         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

town,  amid  the  guns  of  the  fort,  also  with  field  glass  in 
hand  anxiously  watching  the  confederates,  stood  the  fed 
eral  general.  A  sharp-shooter  in  either  line  could  have 
killed  the  commanding  general  in  the  other.  And  now 
that  prophesying  silence  which  always  seems  to  precede 
a  battle  was  afloat  in-  the  air.  In  the  hollow  of  its  still 
ness  it  seemed  as  if  one  could  hear  the  ticking  of  the 
death-watch  of  eternity.  But  presently  it  was  broken 
by  the  soft  strains  of  music  which  floated  up  from  the 
town  below.  It  was  the  federal  band  playing  "  Just 
Before  The  Battle,  Mother." 

The  men  in  gray  on  the  hill  and  the  men  in  blue  in 
the  valley  listened,  and  then  each  one  mentally  followed 
the  tune  with  silent  words,  and  not  without  a  bit  of  mois 
ture  in  their  eyes. 

"  Just  before  the  battle,  Mother, 
I  am  thinking  most  of  thee." 

Suddenly  Hood  closed  his  glasses  with  that  nervous 
jerk  which  was  a  habit  with  him,  straightened  himself 
in  the  saddle  and,  riding  back  to  General  Stewart, 
said  simply :  "  We  will  make  the  fight,  General  Stew 
art." 

Stewart  pressed  his  General's  hand,  wheeled  and 
formed  his  corps  on  the  right.  Cheatham  formed  his 
on  the  left.  A  gun  —  and  but  few  were  used  by  Hood 
in  the  fight  for  fear  of  killing  the  women  and  children 
in  the  town  —  echoed  from  the  ridge.  It  was  the 
signal  for  the  battle  to  begin.  The  heavy  columns 
moved  down  the  side  of  the  ridge,  the  brigades  march 
ing  in  echelon. 


FRANKLIN  157 

At  the  sound  of  the  gun,  the  federal  army,  some  of 
whom  were  on  duty,  but  the  larger  number  loitering 
around  at  rest,  or  engaged  in  preparing  their  evening 
meal,  sprang  noiselessly  to  their  places  behind  the  breast 
works,  while  hurried  whisuers  of  command  ran  down  the 
line. 

General  Travis  had  been  given  a  place  of  honor  on 
General  Hood's  staff.  He  insisted  on  going  into  the 
ranks,  but  his  commander  had  said :  "  Stay  with  me, 
I  shall  need  you  elsewhere."  And  so  the  old  man 
sat  his  horse  silently  watcliing  the  army  forming 
and  marching  down.  But  directly,  as  a  Mississippi 
regiment  passed  by,  he  noticed  at  the  head  of  one  of 
the  companies  an  old  man,  almost  as  old  as  himself,  his 
clothes  torn,  and  ragged  from  long  marching;  shoeless, 
his  feet  tied  up  in  sack-cloth  and  his  old  slouch  hat  aflop 
over  his  ears.  But  he  did  not  complain,  he  stood  erect, 
and  gamely  led  his  men  into  battle.  As  the  company 
halted  for  a  moment,  General  Travis  rode  up  to  the  old 
man  whose  thin  clothes  could  not  keep  him  from  shiver 
ing  in  the  now  chill  air  of  late  afternoon,  for  it  was  then 
past  four  o'clock,  saluted  him  and  said: 

"  Captain,  will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  pull  off  this 
boot?  "  Withdrawing  his  boot  from  the  stirrup  and 
thrusting  it  towards  the  old  man,  the  latter  looked  at  him 
a  moment  in  surprise  but  sheathed  his  sword  and  com 
plied  with  the  request.  "  And  now  the  other  one?  "  said 
Travis  as  he  turned  his  horse  around.  This,  too,  was 
pulled  off. 

"  Just  put  them  on,  Captain,  if  you  please,"  said  the 
rider.  "  I  am  mounted  and  do  not  need  them  as  much 


158         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

as  you  do?  "  and  before  the  gallant  old  Captain  could 
refuse,  he  rode  away  for  duty  —  in  his  stocking  feet ! 

And  now  the  battle  began  in  earnest. 

The  confederates  came  on  in  splendid  form.  On  the 
extreme  right,  Forrest's  cavalry  rested  on  the  river ;  then 
Stewart's  corps  of  Loring,  Walthall,  French,  from  right 
to  left  in  the  order  named.  On  the  left  Cheatham's 
corps,  of  Cleburne,  Brown,  Bate,  and  Walker.  Behind 
Cheatham  marched  Johnston's  and  Clayton's  brigade 
for  support,  thirty  thousand  and  more  of  men,  in  solid 
lines,  bands  playing  and  flags  fluttering  in  the  after 
noon  wind. 

Nor  had  the  federals  been  idle.  Behind  the  breast 
works  lay  the  second  and  third  divisions  of  the  23rd 
Corps,  commanded  in  person  by  the  gallant  General  J. 
D.  Cox.  From  the  railroad  on  the  left  to  the  Carter's 
Creek  pike  on  the  right,  the  brigades  of  these  divisions 
stood  as  follows:  Henderson's,  Casement's,  Reilly's, 
Strickland's,  Moore's.  And  from  the  right  of  the  Car 
ter's  Creek  pike  to  the  river  lay  Kimball's  first  division 
of  the  Fourth  Corps.  In  front  of  the  breastworks, 
across  the  Columbia  pike,  General  Wagner,  commanding 
the  second  division  of  the  Fourth  Corps,  had  thrown  for 
ward  the  two  brigades  of  Bradley  and  Lane  to  check 
the  first  assault  of  the  confederates,  while  Opdyck's  bri 
gade  of  the  same  division  was  held  in  the  town  as  a  re 
serve.  Seven  splendid  batteries  growled  along  the  line 
of  breastworks,  and  showed  their  teeth  to  the  advancing 
foe,  while  three  more  were  caged  in  the  fort  above  and 
beyond  the  town. 

Never  did  men  march  with  cooler  courage  on  more 


FRANKLIN  159 

formidable  lines  of  defense.  Never  did  men  wait  an 
attack  with  cooler  courage.  Breastworks  with  abatis  in 
front  through  which  the  mouth  of  cannon  gaped ;  artil 
lery  and  infantry  on  the  right  to  enfilade ;  siege  guns  in 
the  fort  high  above  all,  to  sweep  and  annihilate. 

Schofield,  born  general  that  he  was,  simply  lay  in  a 
rock-circled,  earth-circled,  water-circled,  iron-and-steel- 
circled  cage,  bayonet  and  flame  tipped,  proof  against  the 
armies  of  the  world ! 

But  Hood's  brave  army  never  hesitated,  never  doubted. 

Even  in  the  matter  of  where  to  throw  up  his  breast 
works,  Schofield  never  erred.  On  a  beautiful  and  seem 
ingly  level  plain  like  this,  a  less  able  general  might  have 
thrown  them  up  anywhere,  just  so  that  they  encircled 
the  town  and  ran  from  river  to  river. 

But  Schofield  took  no  chances.  His  quick  eye  de 
tected  that  even  in  apparent  level  plains  there  are  slight 
undulations.  And  so,  following  a  gentle  rise  all  the 
way  round,  just  on  its  top  he  threw  up  his  breastworks. 
So  that,  besides  the  ditch  and  the  abatis,  there  was  a 
slight  depression  in  his  immediate  front,  open  and  clear, 
but  so  situated  that  on  the  gentle  slope  in  front,  down 
which  the  confederates  must  charge,  the  background  of 
the  slope  brought  them  in  bold  relief  —  gray  targets  for 
the  guns.  On  that  background  the  hare  would  loom  up 
as  big  as  the  hound. 

There  were  really  two  federal  lines,  an  outer  and  an 
inner  one.  The  outer  one  consisted  of  Bradley's  and 
Lane's  brigades  which  had  retired  from  Spring  Hill  be 
fore  the  Confederate  army,  and  had  been  ordered  to  halt 
in  front  of  the  breastworks  to  check  the  advance  of  the 


160         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

army.  They  were  instructed  to  fire  and  then  fall  back  to 
the  breastworks,  if  stubbornly  charged  by  greatly  their 
superiors  in  numbers.  They  fired,  but,  true  to  American 
ideas,  they  disliked  to  retreat.  When  forced  to  do  so, 
they  were  swept  away  with  the  enemy  on  their  very  heels 
and  as  they  rushed  in  over  the  last  line  at  the  breast 
works  on  the  Columbia  pike  the  eager  boys  in  gray 
rushed  over  with  them,  swept  away  portions  of  Reilly's 
and  Strickland's  troops,  and  bayoneted  those  that  re 
mained. 

It  was  then  that  Schofield's  heart  sank  as  he  looked 
down  from  the  guns  of  the  fort.  But  Cox  had  the 
forethought  to  place  Opdyck's  two  thousand  men  in 
reserve  at  this  very  point.  These  sprang  gallantly 
forward  and  restored  the  line. 

They  saved  the  Union  army ! 

The  battle  was  now  raging  all  around  the  line. 
There  was  a  succession  of  yells,  a  rattle,  a  shock  and 
a  roar,  as  brigade  J,fter  brigade  struck  the  breastworks, 
only  to  be  hurled  back  again  or  melt  and  die  away  in 
the  trenches  amid  the  abatis.  Clear  around  the  line 
of  breastworks  it  rolled,  at  intervals,  like  a  magazine 
of  powder  flashing  before  it  explodes,  then  the  roar 
and  upheaval,  followed  anon  and  anon  by  another. 
The  ground  was  soon  shingled  with  dead  men  in  gray, 
while  down  in  the  ditches  or  hugging  the  bloody  sides 
of  the  breastworks  right  under  the  guns,  thousands, 
more  fortunate  or  daring  than  their  comrades,  lay, 
thrusting  and  being  thrust,  shooting  and  being  shot. 
And  there  they  staid  throughout  the  fight  —  riot  strong 
enough  to  climb  over,  and  yet  all  the  guns  of  the 


FRANKLIN  161 

federal  army  could  not  drive  them  away.  Many  a 
gray  regiment  planted  its  battle-flag  on  the  breast 
works  and  then  hugged  those  sides  of  death  in  its  efforts 
to  keep  it  there,  as  bees  cling  around  the  body  of  their 
queen. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  forward  to  the  War  Depart 
ment  nine  stands  of  colors,"  writes  General  Cox  to  Gen 
eral  Geo.  L.  Thomas ;  "  these  flags  with  eleven  others 
were  captured  by  the  Twenty-third  Army  Corps  along 
the  parapets." 

Could  Bonaparte's  army  have  planted  more  on  the 
ramparts  of  Mount  St.  Jean? 

The  sun  had  not  set;  yet  the  black  smoke  of  battle 
had  set  it  before  its  time.  God  had  ordained  otherwise ; 
but  man,  in  his  fury  had  shut  out  the  light  of  heaven 
against  the  decree  of  God,  just  as,  equally  against  His 
decree,  he  has  now  busily  engaged  in  blotting  out  many 
a  brother's  bright  life,  before  the  decree  of  its  sunset. 
Again  and  again  and  again,  from  four  till  midnight  — 
eight  butchering  hours  —  the  heart  of  the  South  was 
hurled  against  those  bastions  of  steel  and  flame,  only  to 
be  pierced  with  ball  and  bayonet. 

And  for  every  heart  that  was  pierced  there  broke  a 
dozen  more  in  the  shade  of  the  southern  palmetto,  or  in 
the  shadow  of  the  northern  pine.  After  nineteen  hun 
dred  years  of  light  and  learning,  what  a  scientific  nation 
of  heart-stabbers  and  brother-murderers  we  Christians 
are! 

It  was  now  that  the  genius  of  the  confederate  cavalry 
leader,  Forrest,  asserted  itself.     With  nearly  ten  thou 
sand  of  his  intrepid  cavalry-men,  born  in  the  saddle,  who 
11 


162         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

carried  rifles  and  shot  as  they  charged,  and  whom  with 
wonderful  genius  their  leader  had  trained  to  dismount 
at  a  moment's  notice  and  fight  as  infantry  —  he  lay  on 
the  extreme  right  between  the  river  and  the  railroad. 
In  a  moment  he  saw  his  opportunity,  and  rode  furiously 
to  Hood's  headquarters.  He  found  the  General  sitting 
on  a  flat  rock,  a  smouldering  fire  by  his  side,  half  way 
down  the  valley,  at  the  Winstead  House,  intently 
watching  the  progress  of  the  battle. 

"  Let  me  go  at  'em,  General,"  shouted  Forrest  in  his 
bluff  way,  "  and  I'll  flank  the  federal  army  out  of  its 
position  in  fifteen  minutes." 

"  No!  Sir,"  shouted  back  Hood.  "  Charge  them  out! 
charge  them  out !  " 

Forrest  turned  and  rode  back  with  an  oath  of  dis 
gust.  Years  afterwards,  Colonel  John  McGavock, 
whose  fine  plantation  lay  within  the  federal  lines  and 
who  had  ample  opportunity  for  observation,  says  that 
when  in  the  early  evening  a  brigade  of  Forrest's  cavalry 
deployed  across  the  river  as  if  opening  the  way  for  the 
confederate  infantry  to  attack  the  federal  army  in  flank 
and  rear,  hasty  preparations  were  made  by  the  federal 
army  for  retreat.  And  thus  was  Forrest's  military  wis 
dom  corroborated.  "  Let  me  flank  them  out,"  was  mili 
tary  genius.  "  No,  charge  them  out,"  was  dare-devil 
blundering ! 

The  shock,  the  shout  and  the  roar  continued.  The 
flash  from  the  guns  could  now  plainly  be  seen  as  night 
descended.  So  continuous  was  the  play  of  flame  around 
the  entire  breastwork  that  it  looked  to  the  general  at 
headquarters  like  a  circle  of  prairie  fire,  leaping  up  at 


FRANKLIN  163 

intervals  along  the  breastworks,  higher  and  higher 
where  the  batteries  were  ablaze. 

In  a  black-locust  thicket,  just  to  the  right  of  the  Co 
lumbia  turnpike  and  near  the  Carter  House,  with  abatis 
in  front,  the  strongest  of  the  batteries  had  been  placed. 
It  mowed  down  everything  in  front.  Seeing  it,  General 
Hood  turned  to  General  Travis  and  said :  "  General, 
my  compliments  to  General  Cleburne,  and  say  to  him  I 
desire  that  battery  at  his  hands." 

The  old  man  wheeled  and  was  gone.  In  a  moment, 
it  seemed,  the  black  smoke  of  battle  engulfed  him.  Cle- 
burne's  command  was  just  in  front  of  the  old  gin  house, 
forming  for  another  charge.  The  dead  lay  in  heaps  in 
front.  They  almost  filled  the  ditch  around  the  breast 
works.  But  the  command,  terribly  cut  to  pieces,  was 
forming  as  coolly  as  if  on  dress  parade.  Above  them 
floated  a  peculiar  flag,  a  field  of  deep  blue  on  which  was 
a  crescent  moon  and  stars.  It  was  Cleburne's  battle 
flag  and  well  the  enemy  knew  it.  They  had  seen  and 
felt  it  at  Shiloh,  Murfreesboro,  Ringgold  Gap,  Atlanta. 
"  I  tip  my  hat  to  that  flag,"  said  General  Sherman  years 
after  the  war.  "  Whenever  my  men  saw  it  they  knew 
it  meant  fight." 

As  the  old  man  rode  up,  the  division  charged.  Car 
ried  away  in  the  excitement  he  charged  with  them,  guid 
ing  his  horse  by  the  flashes  of  the  guns.  As  they  rushed 
on  the  breastworks  a  gray  figure  on  a  chestnut  horse 
rode  diagonally  across  the  front  of  the  moving  column 
at  the  enemy's  gun.  The  horse  went  down  within  fifty 
yards  of  the  breastwork.  The  rider  arose,  waved  his 
sword  and  led  his  men  on  foot  to  the  very  ramparts. 


164         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Then  he  staggered  and  fell,  pierced  with  a  dozen  minie 
balls.  It  was  Cleburne,  the  peerless  field-marshal  of 
confederate  brigade  commanders;  the  genius  to  infantry 
as  Forrest  was  to  cavalry.  His  corps  was  swept  back  by 
the  terrible  fire,  nearly  half  of  them  dead  or  wounded. 

Ten  minutes  afterwards  General  Travis  stood  before 
General  Hood. 

"  General  Cleburne  is  dead,  General  " —  was  all  he 
said.  Hood  did  not  turn  his  head. 

"  My  compliments  to  General  Adams,"  he  said,  "  and 
tell  him  I  ask  that  battery  at  his  hands." 

Again  the  old  man  wheeled  and  was  gone.  Again  he 
rode  into  the  black  night  and  the  blacker  smoke  of  bat 
tle. 

General  Adams's  brigade  was  in  Walthall's  division. 
As  the  aged  courier  rode  up,  Adams  was  just  charging. 
Again  the  old  man  was  swept  away  with  the  charge. 
They  struck  the  breastworks  where  Stile's  and  Case 
ment's  brigades  lay  on  the  extreme  left  of  the  federal 
army.  '  Their  officers  showed  heroic  examples  and  self- 
sacrifice,"  wrote  General  Cox  in  his  official  report,  "  rid 
ing  up  to  our  lines  in  advance  of  their  men,  cheering 
them  on.  One  officer,  Adams,  was  shot  down  upon  the 
parapet  itself,  his  horse  falling  across  the  breastworks." 
Casement  himself,  touched  by  the  splendor  of  his  ride, 
had  cotton  brought  from  the  old  gin  house  and  placed 
under  the  dying  soldier's  head.  "  You  are  too  brave  a 
man  to  die,"  said  Casement  tenderly ;  "  I  wish  that  I 
could  save  you."  "  'Tis  the  fate  of  a  soldier  to  die 
for  his  country,"  smiled  *^e  dying  soldier.  Then  he 
passed  away. 


FRANKLIN  165 

It  was  a  half  hour  before  the  old  man  reached  Hood's 
headquarters  again,  his  black  horse  wet  with  sweat. 

"  General  Adams  lies  in  front  of  the  breastworks  — 
dead !  His  horse  half  over  it  —  dead  "•  —  was  all  he 
said. 

Hood  turned  pale.  His  eyes  flashed  with  indignant 
grief. 

"  Then  tell  General  Gist,"  he  exclaimed.  The  old 
man  vanished  again  and  rode  once  more  into  the  smoke 
and  the  night.  Gist's  brigade  led  the  front  line  of 
Brown's  division,  Cheatham's  corps.  It  was  on  the  left, 
fronting  Strickland's  and  Moore's,  on  the  breastworks. 
The  Twenty-fourth  South  Carolina  Infantry  was  in 
front  of  the  charging  lines.  "  In  passing  from  the  left 
to  the  right  of  the  regiment,"  writes  Colonel  Ellison 
Capers  commanding  the  South  Carolina  regiment  above 
named,  "the  General  (Gist)  waved  his  hat  to  us,  ex 
pressed  his  pride  and  confidence  in  the  Twenty-fourth 
and  rode  away  in  the  smoke  of  battle  never  more  to  be 
seen  by  the  men  he  had  commanded  on  so  many  fields. 
His  horse  was  shot,  and,  dismounting,  he  was  leading  the 
right  of  the  brigade  when  he  fell,  pierced  through  the 
heart.  On  pressed  the  charging  lines  of  the  brigade, 
driving  the  advance  force  of  the  enemy  pell-mell  into  a 
locust  abatis  where  many  were  captured  and  sent  to  the 
rear;  others  were  wounded  by  the  fire  of  their  own  men. 
This  abatis  was  a  formidable  and  fearful  obstruction. 
The  entire  brigade  was  arrested  by  it.  But  Gist's  and 
Gordon's  brigade  charged  on  and  reached  the  ditch, 
mounted  the  works  and  met  the  enemy  in  close  combat. 
The  colors  of  the  Twenty-fourth  were  planted  and  de- 


166        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

fended  on  the  parapet,  and  the  enemy  retired  in  our 
front  some  distance,  but  soon  rallied  and  came  back  in 
turn  to  charge  us.  He  never  succeeded  in  retaking  the 
line  we  held.  Torn  and  exhausted,  deprived  of  every 
general  officer  and  nearly  every  field  officer,  the  division 
had  only  strength  enough  left  to  hold  its  position." 

The  charging  became  intermittent.  Then  out  of  the 
night,  as  Hood  sat  listening,  again  came  the  old  man, 
his  face  as  white  as  his  long  hair,  his  horse  once  black, 
now  white  with  foam. 

"  General  Gist  too,  is  dead,"  he  said  sadly. 

"  Tell  Granbury,  Carter,  Strahl  —  General !  Throw 
them  in  there  and  capture  that  battery  and  break  that 
line." 

The  old  man  vanished  once  more  and  rode  into  the 
shock  and  shout  of  battle. 

General  Strahl  was  leading  his  brigade  again  against 
the  breastworks.  "  Strahl's  and  Carter's  brigade  came 
gallantly  to  the  assistance  of  Gist's  and  Gordon's  "  runs 
the  confederate  report  sent  to  Richmond,  "  but  the 
enemy's  fire  from  the  houses  in  the  rear  of  the  line  and 
from  guns  posted  on  the  far  side  of  the  river  so  as  to 
enfilade  the  field,  tore  their  line  to  pieces  before  it 
reached  the  locust  abatis." 

General  Carter  fell  mortally  wounded  before  reaching 
the  breastworks,  but  General  Strahl  reached  the  ditch, 
filled  with  dead  and  dying  men,  though  his  entire  staff 
had  been  killed.  Here  he  stood  with  only  two  men 
around  him,  Cunningham  and  Brown.  "  Keep  firing  " 
said  Strahl  as  he  stood  on  the  bodies  of  the  dead  and 
passed  up  guns  to  the  two  privates.  The  next  instant 


FRANKLIN  167 

Brown  fell  heavily ;  he,  too,  was  dead.  "  What  shall 
I  do,  General?"  asked  Cunningham.  "Keep  firing," 
said  Strahl.  Again  Cunningham  fired.  "  Pass  me  an 
other  gun,  General,"  said  Cunningham.  There  was  no 
answer  —  the  general  was  dead. 

Not  a  hundred  yards  away  lay  General  Granbury, 
dead.  He  died  leading  the  brave  Texans  to  the  works. 

To  the  commanding  General  it  seemed  an  age  before 
the  old  man  returned.  Then  he  saw  him  in  the  dark 
ness  afar  off,  before  he  reached  the  headquarters.  The 
General  thought  of  death  on  his  pale  horse  and  shivered. 

"  Granbury,  Carter,  Strahl  —  all  dead,  General,"  he 
said.  "  Colonels  command  divisions,  Captains  are  com 
manding  brigades." 

"How  does  Cheatham  estimate  his  loss?"  asked  the 
General. 

"  At  half  his  command  killed  and  wounded,"  said  the 
old  soldier  sadly. 

"  My  God  !  —  my  God  !  —  this  awful,  awful  day  !  " 
cried  Hood. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  and  then :  "  General?  " 
It  came  from  General  Travis. 

The  General  looked  up. 

"  May  I  lead  the  Tennessee  troops  in  —  I  have  led 
them  often  before." 

Hood  thought  a  moment,  then  nodded  and  the  horse 
and  the  rider  were  gone.  It  was  late  —  nearly  mid 
night.  The  firing  on  both  sides  had  nearly  ceased,— 
only  a  desultory  rattling  —  the  boom  of  a  gun  now  and 
ther.  But  O,  the  agony,  the  death,  the  wild  confusion ! 


168        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

This  was  something  like  the  babel  that  greeted  the  old 
soldier's  ears  as  he  rode  forward : 

"  The  Fourth  Mississippi  —  where  is  the  Fourth  Mis 
sissippi  ?  "  "  Here  is  the  Fortieth  Alabama's  standard 
— •  rally  men  to  your  standard !  "  "  Where  is  General 
Cleburne,  men?  Who  has  seen  General  Cleburne?  " 
"  Up,  boys,  and  let  us  at  'em  agin !  Damn  'em,  they've 
wounded  me  an'  I  want  to  kill  some  more !  " 

"  Water !  —  water  —  for  God's  sake  give  us  water !  " 
This  came  from  a  pile  of  wounded  men  just  under  the 
guns  on  the  Columbia  pike.  It  came  from  a  sixteen 
year  old  boy  in  blue.  Four  dead  comrades  lay  across 
him. 

"  And  this  is  the  curse  of  it,"  said  General  Travis,  as 
he  rode  among  the  men. 

But  suddenly  amid  the  smoke  and  confusion,  the  sol 
diers  saw  what  many  thought  was  an  apparition  —  an 
old,  old  warrior,  on  a  horse  with  black  mane  and  tail  and 
fiery  eyes,  but  elsewhere  covered  with  white  sweat  and 
pale  as  the  horse  of  death.  The  rider's  face  too,  was 
deadly  white,  but  his  keen  eyes  blazed  with  the  fire  of 
many  generations  of  battle-loving  ancestors. 

The  soldiers  flocked  round  him,  half  doubting,  half 
believing.  The  terrible  ordeal  of  that  bloody  night's 
work ;  the  poignant  grief  from  beholding  the  death  and 
wounds  of  friends  and  brothers;  the  weird,  uncanny 
groans  of  the  dying  upon  the  sulphurous-smelling  night 
air ;  the  doubt,  uncertainty,  and  yet,  through  it  all,  the 
bitter  realization  that  all  was  in  vain,  had  shocked,  be 
numbed,  unsettled  the  nerves  of  the  stoutest;  and  many 
of  them  scarcely  knew  whether  they  were  really  alive, 


FRANKLIN  169 

confronting  in  the  weird  hours  of  the  night  ditches  of 
blood  and  breastworks  of  death,  or  were  really  dead  — 
dead  from  concussion,  from  shot  or  shell,  and  were  now 
wandering  on  a  spirit  battle-field  till  some   soul-leader 
should  lead  them  away. 

And  so,  half  dazed  and  half  dreaming,  and  yet  half 
alive  to  its  realization,  they  flocked  around  the  old  war 
rior,  and  they  would  not  have  been  at  all  surprised  had 
he  told  them  he  came  from  another  world. 

Some  thought  of  Mars.  Some  thought  of  death  and 
his  white  horse.  Some  felt  of  the  animal's  mane  and 
touched  his  streaming  flanks  and  cordy  legs  to  see  if  it 
were  really  a  horse  and  not  an  apparition,  while  "  What 
is  it?"  and  "Who  is  he?"  was  whispered  down  the 
lines. 

Then  the  old  rider  spoke  for  the  first  time,  and  said 
simply : 

"  Men,  I  have  come  to  lead  you  in." 

A  mighty  shout  came  up.  "  It's  General  Lee !  —  he 
has  come  to  lead  us  in,"  they  shouted. 

"  No,  no,  men," — said  the  old  warrior  quickly.  "I 
am  not  General  Lee.  But  I  have  led  Southern  troops 
before.  I  was  at  New  Orleans,  I  was  — " 

"  It's  Die  Hick'ry  —  by  the  eternal !  —  Ole  Hick'ry 
—  and  he's  come  back  to  life  to  lead  us !  "  shouted  a  big 
fellow  as  he  threw  his  hat  in  the  air. 

"  Ole  Hickory  !  Ole  Hickory !  "  echoed  and  re-echoed 
down  the  lines,  till  it  reached  the  ears  of  the  dying  sol 
diers  in  the  ditch  itself,  and  many  a  poor,  brave  fellow, 
as  his  heart  strings  snapped  and  the  broken  chord  gur 
gled  out  into  the  dying  moan,  saw  amid  the  blaze  and 


170         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

light  of  the  new  life,  the  apparition  turn  into  a  reality 
and  a  smile  of  exquisite  satisfaction  was  forever  frozen 
on  his  face  in  the  mould  of  death,  as  he  whispered  with 
his  last  breath: 

"  It's  Old  Hickory  • —  my  General  —  I  have  fought 
a  good  fight  —  I  come !  " 

Then  the  old  warrior  smiled  —  a  smile  of  simple 
beauty  and  grandeur,  of  keen  satisfaction  that  such  an 
honor  should  have  been  paid  him,  and  he  tried  to  speak 
to  correct  them.  But  they  shouted  the  more,  and 
drowned  out  his  voice  and  would  not  have  it  otherwise. 
Despairing,  he  rode  to  the  front  and  drew  his  long, 
heavy,  old,  revolutionary  sword.  It  flashed  in  the  air. 
It  came  to  "  attention  "•  —  and  then  a  dead  silence  fol 
lowed. 

"  Men,"  he  said,  "  this  is  the  sword  of  John  Sevier, 
the  rebel  that  led  us  up  the  sides  of  King's  Mountain 
when  every  tyrant  gun  that  belched  in  our  face  called 
us  —  rebels  !  " 

"  Old  Hick'ry  !  Old  Hick'ry,  forever !  "  came  back 
from  the  lines. 

Again  the  old  sword  came  to  attention,  and  again  a 
deep  hush  followed. 

"  Men,"  he  said,  drawing  a  huge  rifled  barreled  pistol 
— "  this  is  the  pistol  of  Andrew  Jackson,  the  rebel  that 
whipped  the  British  at  New  Orleans  when  every  gun  that 
thundered  in  his  face,  meant  death  to  liberty !  " 

"  Old  Hickory !  Old  Hickory ! !  "  came  back  in  a 
frenzy  of  excitement. 

Again  the  old  sword  came  to  attention  —  again,  the 
silence.  Then  the  old  man  fairly  stood  erect  in  his 


FRANKLIN  171 

stirrups  —  he  grew  six  inches  taller  and  straighter  and 
the  black  horse  reared  and  rose  as  if  to  give  emphasis 
to  his  rider's  assertion: 

"  Men,"  he  shouted,  "  rebel  is  the  name  that  tyranny 
gives  to  patriotism !  And  now,  let  us  fight,  as  our  fore 
fathers  fought,  for  our  state,  our  homes  and  our  fire 
sides!  And  then  clear  and  distinct  there  rang  out  on 
the  night  air,  a  queer  old  continental  command: 

"  Fix,  pieces  !  " 

They  did  not  know  what  this  meant  at  first.  But 
some  old  men  in  the  line  happened  to  remember  and 
fixed  their  bayonets.  Then  there  was  clatter  and  clank 
down  the  entire  line  as  others  imitated  their  examples. 

"  Poise,  fo'k !  "  rang  out  again  more  queerly  still. 
The  old  men  who  remembered  brought  their  guns  to  the 
proper  position.  "  Right  shoulder,  fo'k  !  " —  followed. 
Then,  "  Forward,  March !  "  came  back  and  they  moved 
straight  at  the  batteries  —  now  silent  —  and  straight 
at  the  breastworks,  more  silent  still.  Proudly,  superbly, 
they  came  on,  with  not  a  shout  or  shot  —  a  chained 
line  with  links  of  steel  —  a  moving  mass  with  one  heart 
—  and  that  heart, —  victory. 

On  they  came  at  the  breastworks,  walking  over  the 
dead  who  lay  so  thick  they  could  step  from  body  to  body 
as  they  marched.  On  they  came,  following  the  old 
cocked  hat  that  had  once  held  bloodier  breastworks 
against  as  stubborn  foe. 

On  —  on  —  they  came,  expecting  every  moment  to 
see  a  flame  of  fire  run  round  the  breastworks,  a  furnace 
of  flame  leap  up  from  the  batteries,  and  then  —  victory 


172         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

or    death  —  behind    old    Hickory !     Either    was    honor 
enough ! 

And  now  they  were  within  fifty  feet  of  the  breast 
works,  moving  as  if  on  dress  parade.  The  guns  must 
thunder  now  or  never !  One  step  more  —  then,  an  elec 
trical  bolt  shot  through  every  nerve  as  the  old  man 
wheeled  his  horse  and  again  rang  out  that  queer  old 
continental  command,  right  in  the  mouth  of  the  enemy's 
ditch,  right  in  the  teeth  of  his  guns : 
"  Charge,  pieces  !  " 

It  was  Tom  Travis  who  commanded  the  guns  where 
the  Columbia  Pike  met  the  breastworks  at  the  terrible 
deadly  locust  thicket.      All  night  he  had  stood  at  his 
post   and   stopped   nine   desperate   charges.     All   night 
in  the  flash  and  roar  and  the  strange  uncanny  smell  of 
blood  and  black  powder  smoke,  he  had  stood  among  the 
dead  and  dying  calling  stubbornly,  monotonously: 
.  "  Ready !  " 
"  Aim !  " 
"  Fire !  " 

And  now  it  was  nearly  midnight  and  Schofield,  find 
ing  the  enemy  checked,  was  withdrawing  on  Nashville. 
Tom  Travis  thought  the  battle  was  over,  but  in  the 
glare  and  flash  he  looked  and  saw  another  column, 
ghostly  gray  in  the  starlight,  moving  stubbornly  at  his 
guns. 

"  Ready !  "  he  shouted  as  his  gunners  sprang  again 
to  their  pieces. 

On  carne  the  column  —  beautifully  on.  How  it 
thrilled  him  to  see  them !  How  it  hurt  to  think  they  were 
his  people ! 


FRANKLIN  173 

"  Aim!  "  he  thundered  again,  and  then  as  he  looked 
through  the  gray  torch  made,  starlighted  night,  he 
quailed  in  a  cold  sickening  fear,  for  the  old  man  who 
led  them  on  was  his  grandsire,  the  man  whom  of  all 
on  earth  he  loved  and  revered  the  most. 

Eight  guns,  with  grim  muzzles  trained  on  the  old 
rider  and  his  charging  column,  waited  but  for  the  cap 
tain's  word  to  hurl  their  double-shotted  canisters  of* 
death. 

And  Tom  Travis,  in  the  agony  of  it,  stood,  sword 
in  hand,  stricken  in  dumbness  and  doubt.  On  came  the 
column,  the  old  warrior  leading  them  —  on  and :  — 

"  The  command  —  the  command !  Give  it  to  us, 
Captain,"  shouted  the  gunners. 

"  Cease  firing!  " 

The  gunners  dropped  their  lanyards  with  an  oath, 
trained  machines  that  they  were. 

It  was  a  drunken  German  who  brought  a  heavy  sword- 
hilt  down  on  the  young  officer's  head  with : 

"  You  damned  traitor !  " 

A  gleam  of  gun  and  bayonet  leaped  in  the  misty 
light  in  front,  from  shoulder  to  breast  —  a  rock  wall, 
tipped  with  steel  swept  crushingly  forward  over  the 
trenches  over  the  breastworks. 

Under  the  guns,  senseless,  his  skull  crushed,  an  up 
turned  face  stopped  the  old  warrior.  Down  from  his 
horse  he  came  with  a  weak,  hysterical  sob. 

"  O  Tom  —  Tom,  I  might  have  known  it  was  you  — 
my  gallant,  noble  boy  —  my  Irish  Gray !  " 

He  kissed,  as  he  thought,  the  dead  face,  and  went  on 
with  his  men. 


174         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

It  was  just  midnight. 

"  At  midnight,  all  being  quiet  in  front,  in  accordance 
with  orders  from  the  commanding  Generals,"  writes  Gen 
eral  J.  D.  Cox  in  his  official  report,  "  I  withdrew  my 
command  to  the  north  bank  of  the  river." 

"  The  battle  closed  about  twelve  o'clock  at  night," 
wrote  General  Hood,  "  when  the  enemy  retreated  rapidly 
on  Nashville,  leaving  the  dead  and  wounded  in  our  hands. 
We  captured  about  a  thousand  prisoners  and  several 
stands  of  colors." 

Was  this  a  coincidence  —  or  as  some  think  —  did  the 
boys  in  blue  retreat  before  they  would  fire  on  an  old 
Continental  and  the  spirit  of  '76? 

An  hour  afterwards  a  negro  was  sadly  leading  a  tired 
old  man  on  a  superb  horse  back  to  headquarters,  and 
as  the  rider's  head  sank  on  his  breast  he  said: 

"  Lead  me,  Bisco,  I'm  too  weak  to  guide  my  horse. 
Nothing  is  left  now  but  the  curse  of  it." 
And  O,  the  curse  of  it! 

Fifty-seven  Union  dead  beside  the  wounded,  in  the  lit 
tle  front  yard  of  the  Carter  House,  alone.  And  they 
lay  around  the  breastworks  from  river  to  river,  a  chain 
of  dead  and  dying.  In  front  of  the  breastworks  was 
another  chain  —  a  wider  and  thicker  one.  It  also  ran 
from  river  to  river,  but  was  gray  instead  of  blue. 
Chains  are  made  of  links,  and  the  full  measure  of  "  the 
curse  of  it "  may  have  been  seen  if  one  could  have  looked 
over  the  land  that  night  and  have  seen  where  the  dead 
links  lying  there  were  joined  to  live  under  the  roof  trees 
of  far  away  homes. 

But  here  is  the  tale  of  a  severed  link:     About  two 


FRANKLIN  175 

o'clock  lights  began  to  flash  about  over  the  battle-field 
—  they  were  hunting  for  the  dead  and  wounded. 
Among  these,  three  had  come  out  from  the  Carter  House. 
A  father,  son  and  daughter;  each  carried  a  lantern  and 
as  they  passed  they  flashed  their  lights  in  the  faces  of 
the  dead. 

"  May  we  look  for  brother?  "  asked  the  young  girl, 
of  an  officer.  "  We  hope  he  is  not  here  but  fear  he  is. 
He  has  not  been  home  tor  two  years,  being  stationed  in 
another  state.  But  we  heard  he  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  come  home  again  and  joined  General 
Bate's  brigade.  And  O,  we  fear  he  has  been  killed  for 
he  would  surely  have  been  home  before  this." 

They  separated,  each  looking  for  "  brother."  Di 
rectly  the  father  heard  the  daughter  cry  out.  It  was  in 
the  old  orchard  near  the  house.  On  reaching  the  spot 
she  was  seated  on  the  ground,  holding  the  head  of  her 
dying  brother  in  "her  lap  and  sobbing : 

"  Brother's  come  home !  Brother's  come  home ! " 
Alas,  she  meant  —  gone  home ! 

"  Captain  Carter,  on  staff  duty  with  Tyler's  bri 
gade,"  writes  General  Wm.  B.  Bate  in  his  official  re 
port,  "  fell  mortally  wounded  near  the  works  of  the 
enemy  and  almost  at  the  door  of  his  father's  home.  His 
gallantry  I  witnessed  with  much  pride,  as  I  had  done 
on  other  fields,  and  here  take  pleasure  in  mentioning  it 
especially." 

The  next  morning  in  the  first  light  of  the  first  day  of 
that  month  celebrated  as  the  birth-month  of  Him  who 
declared  long  ago  that  war  should  cease,  amid  the  dead 
and  dying  of  both  armies,  stood  two  objects  which 


176         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

should  one  day  be  carved  in  marble  —  One,  to  represent 
the  intrepid  bravery  of  the  South,  the  other,  the  cool 
courage  of  the  North,  and  both  — "  the  curse  of  it." 

The  first  was  a  splendid  war-horse,  dead,  but  lying 
face  forward,  half  over  the  federal  breastworks.  It  was 
the  horse  of  General  Adams. 

The  other  was  a  Union  soldier  —  the  last  silent  sen 
tinel  of  Schofield's  army.  He  stood  behind  a  small 
locust  tree,  just  in  front  of  the  Carter  House  gate.  He 
had  drawn  his  iron  ram-rod  which  rested  under  his  right 
arm  pit,  supporting  that  side.  His  gun,  with  butt  on 
the  ground  at  his  left,  rested  with  muzzle  against  his 
left  side,  supporting  it.  A  cartridge,  half  bitten  off 
was  in  his  mouth.  He  leaned  heavily  against  the  small 
tree  in  front.  He  was  quite  dead,  a  minie  ball  through 
his  head;  but  thus  propped  he  stood,  the  wonder  of 
many  eyes,  the  last  sentinel  of  the  terrible  night  battle. 

******** 
But  another  severed  link  cut  deepest  of  all.  In  the 
realization  of  her  love  for  Thomas  Travis,  Alice  West- 
more's  heart  died  within  her.  In  the  years  which  fol 
lowed,  if  suffering  could  make  her  a  great  singer,  now 
indeed  was  she  great. 


PART  FOURTH  — THE  LINT 


177 

12 


CHAPTER  I 

COTTONTOWN 

SLAVERY  clings  to  cotton. 
When    the    directors    of    a    cotton    mill,    in    a 
Massachusetts    village,    decided,    in    the    middle 
'70's,  to  move  their  cotton  factory  from  New  England  to 
Alabama,  they  had  two  objects  in  view  —  cheaper  labor 
and  cheaper  staple. 

And  they  did  no  unwise  thing,  as  the  books  of  the 
company  from  that  time  on  showed. 

In  the  suburbs  of  a  growing  North  Alabama  town, 
lying  in  the  Tennessee  Valley  and  flanked  on  both  sides 
by  low,  regularly  rolling  mountains,  the  factory  had 
been  built. 

It  was  a  healthful,  peaceful  spot,  and  not  unpictur- 
esque.  North  and  south  the  mountains  fell  away  in  an 
undulating  rhythmical  sameness,  with  no  abrupt  gorges 
to  break  in  and  destroy  the  poetry  of  their  scroll  against 
the  sky.  The  valley  supplemented  the  effect  of  the 
mountains ;  for,  from  the  peak  of  Sunset  Rock,  high  up 
on  the  mountain,  it  looked  not  unlike  the  chopped  up 
waves  of  a  great  river  stiffened  into  land  —  especially 
in  winter  when  the  furrowed  rows  of  the  vast  cotton 
fields  lay  out  brown  and  symmetrically  turned  under  the 
hazy  sky. 

The  factory  was  a  -low,  one-story  structure  of  half 

179 


180         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

burnt  bricks.  Like  a  vulgar  man,  cheapness  was  writ 
ten  all  over  its  face.  One  of  its  companions  was  a 
wooden  store  house  near  by,  belonging  to  the  company. 
The  other  companion  was  a  squatty  low-browed  en 
gine  room,  decorated  with  a  smoke-stack  which  did  busi 
ness  every  day  in  the  week  except  Sunday.  A  black, 
soggy  exhaust-pipe  stuck  out  of  a  hole  in  its  side,  like 
a  nicotine-soaked  pipe  in  an  Irishman's  mouth,  and  so 
natural  and  matter-of-fact  was  the  entire  structure  that 
at  evening,  in  the  uncertain  light,  when  the  smoke  was 
puffing  out  of  its  stack,  and  the  dirty  water  running 
from  its  pipes,  and  the  reflected  fire  from  the  engine's 
furnace  blazed  through  the  sunken  eyes  of  the  windows, 
begrizzled  and  begrimed,  nothing  was  wanted  but  a  lit 
tle  imagination  to  hear  it  cough  and  spit  and  give  one 
final  puff  at  its  pipe  and  say :  "  Lu'd  but  o'ive  wur-rek 
hard  an'  o'im  toired  to-day ! " 

Around  it  in  the  next  few  years  had  sprung  up  Cot- 
tontown. 

The  factory  had  been  built  on  the  edge  of  an  old 
cotton-field  which  ran  right  up  to  the  town's  limit;  and 
the  field,  unplowed  for  several  years,  had  become  sodded 
with  the  long  stolens  of  rank  Bermuda  grass,  holding 
in  its  perpetual  billows  of  green  the  furrows  which  had 
been  thrown  up  for  cotton  rows  and  tilled  years  before. 

This  made  a  beautiful  pea-green  carpet  in  summer 
and  a  comfortable  straw-colored  matting  in  winter;  and 
it  was  the  only  bit  of  sentiment  that  clung  to  Cotton- 
town. 

All  the  rest  of  it  was  practical  enough :  Rows  of 
scurvy  three-roomed  cottages,  all  exactly  alike,  even  to 


COTTONTOWN  181 

the  gardens  in  the  rear,  laid  off  in  equal  breadth  and 
running  with  the  same  unkept  raggedness  up  the  flinty 
side  of  the  mountain. 

There  was  not  enough  originality  among  the  worked- 
to-death  inhabitants  of  Cottontown  to  plant  their  gar 
dens  differently ;  for  all  of  them  had  the  same  weedy 
turnip-patch  on  one  side,  straggling  tomatoes  on  an 
other,  and  half-dried  mullein-stalks  sentineling  the  cor 
ners.  For  years  these  cottages  had  not  been  painted, 
and  now  each  wore  the  same  tinge  of  sickly  yellow  paint. 
It  was  not  difficult  to  imagine  that  they  had  had  a  long 
siege  of  malarial  fever  in  which  the  village  doctor  had 
used  abundant  plasters  of  mustard,  and  the  disease  had 
finally  run  into  "  yaller  ja'ndice,"  as  they  called  it  in 
Cottontown. 

And  thus  Cottontown  had  stood  for  several  years,  a 
new  problem  in  Southern  life  and  industry,  and  a  pay 
ing  one  for  the  Massachusetts  directors. 

In  the  meanwhile  another  building  had  been  put  up  — 
a  little  cheaply  built  chapel,  of  long-leaf  yellow  pine. 
It  was  known  as  the  Bishop's  church,  and  sat  on  the 
side  of  the  mountain,  half  way  up  among  the  black 
jacks,  exposed  to  the  blistering  suns  of  summer  and 
the  winds  of  winter. 

It  had  never  been  painted :  "  An'  it  don't  need  it," 
as  the  Bishop  had  said  when  the  question  of  painting 
it  had  been  raised  by  some  of  the  members. 

"  No,  it  don't  need  it,  for  the  hot  sun  has  drawed  all 
the  rosin  out  on  its  surface,  an'  pine  rosin's  as  good  a 
paint  as  any  church  needs.  Jes'  let  God  be,  an'  He'll 
fix  His  things  like  He  wants  'em  any  way.  He  put  the 


182         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

paint  in  the  pine-tree  when  He  made  it.  Now  man  is 
mighty  smart, —  he  can  make  paint,  but  he  can't  make 
a  pine  tree." 

It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  as  the  Bishop  drove 
along  to  church  he  was  still  thinking  of  Jack  Bracken 
and  Captain  Tom,  and  the  burial  of  little  Jack.  When 
he  arose  that  morning  Jack  was  up,  clean-shaved  and 
neatly  dressed.  As  Mrs.  Watts,  the  Bishop's  wife,  had 
become  used,  as  she  expressed  it,  to  his  "  fetchin'  any 
old  thing,  frum  an  old  hoss  to  an  old  man  home,  whar- 
ever  he  finds  'em," —  she  did  not  express  any  surprise 
at  having  a  new  addition  to  the  family. 

The  outlaw  looked  nervous  and  sorrow-stricken.  Sev 
eral  times,  when  some  one  came  on  lu'm  unexpectedly,  the 
Bishop  saw  him  feeling  nervously  for  a  Colt's  revolver 
which  had  been  put  away.  Now  and  then,  too,  he  saw 
great  tears  trickling  down  the  rough  cheeks,  when  he 
thought  no  one  was  noticing  him. 

"  Now,  Jack,"  said  the  Bishop  after  breakfast,  "  you 
jes'  get  on  John  Paul  Jones  an'  hunt  for  Cap'n  Tom. 
I  know  you'll  not  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  find  him. 
Go  by  the  cave  and  see  if  him  an'  Eph  ain't  gone  back. 
I'm  not  afeard  —  I  know  Eph  will  take  care  of  him, 
but  we  want  to  fin'  him.  After  meetin'  if  you  haven't 
found  him  I'll  join  in  the  hunt  myself  —  for  we  must 
find  Cap'n  Tom,  Jack,  befo'  the  sun  goes  down.  I'd 
ruther  see  him  than  any  livin'  man.  Cap'n  Tom  — 
Cap'n  Tom  —  him  that's  been  as  dead  all  these  years ! 
Fetch  him  home  when  you  find  him  —  fetch  him  home 
to  me.  He  shall  never  want  while  I  live.  An',  Jack, 


COTTONTOWN  183 

remember  —  don't  forget  yo'se'f  and  hold  up  anybody. 
I'll  expec'  you  to  jine  the  church  nex'  Sunday." 

"  I  ain't  been  in  a  church  for  fifteen  years,"  said  the 
other. 

"  High  time  you  are  going,  then.  You've  put  yo' 
hands  to  the  plough — turn  not  back  an'  God'll  straight 
en  out  everything." 

Jack  was  silent.  "  I'll  go  by  the  cave  fus'  an'  jus' 
look  where  little  Jack  is  sleepin'.  Po'  little  feller,  he 
must  ha'  been  mighty  lonesome  last  night." 

It  was  ten  o'clock  and  the  Bishop  was  on  his  way  to 
church.  He  was  driving  the  old  roan  of  the  night  be 
fore.  A  parody  on  a  horse,  to  one  who  did  not  look 
closely,  but  to  one  who  knows  and  who  looks  beyond  the 
mere  external  form  for  that  hidden  something  in  both 
man  and  horse  which  bespeaks  strength  and  reserve 
force,  there  was  seen  through  the  blindness  and  the  ugli 
ness  and  the  sleepy,  ambling,  shuffling  gait  a  clean-cut 
form,  with  deep  chest  and  closely  ribbed;  with  well 
drawn  flanks,  a  fine,  flat  steel-turned  bone,  and  a  power 
ful  muscle,  above  hock  and  forearms,  that  clung  to  the 
leg  as  the  Bishop  said,  "  like  bees  a'swarmin'." 

At  his  little  cottage  gate  stood  Bud  Billings,  the  best 
slubber  in  the  cotton  mill.  Bud  never  talked  to  any  one 
except  the  Bishop;  and  his  wife,  who  was  the  worst 
Xantippe  in  Cottontown,  declared  she  had  lived  with 
him  six  months  straight  and  never  heard  him  come 
nearer  speaking  than  a  grunt.  It  was  also  a  saying 
of  Richard  Travis,  that  Bud  had  been  known  to  break 
all  records  for  silence  by  drawing  a  year's  wages  at  the 


184         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

mill,    never    missing    a   minute    and    never    speaking    a 
word. 

Nor  had  he  ever  looked  any  one  full  in  the  eye  in  his 
life. 

As  the  Bishop  drove  shamblingly  along  down  the 
road,  deeply  preoccupied  in  his  forthcoming  sermon, 
there  came  from  out  of  a  hole,  situated  somewhere  be 
tween  the  grizzled  fringe  of  hair  that  marked  Bud's 
whiskers  and  the  grizzled  fringe  above  that  marked  his 
eye-brows,  a  piping,  apologetic  voice  that  sounded  like 
the  first  few  rasps  of  an  old  rusty  saw;  but  to  the 
occupant  of  the  buggy  it  meant,  with  a  drawl: 

"Howdy  do,  Bishop?" 

A  blind  horse  is  quick  to  observe  and  take  fright  at 
anything  uncanny.  He  is  the  natural  ghost-finder  of 
the  highways,  and  that  voice  was  too  much  for  the  old 
roan.  To  him  it  sounded  like  something  that  had  been 
resurrected.  It  was  a  ghost-voice,  arising  after  many 
years.  He  shied,  sprang  forward,  half  wheeled  and 
nearly  upset  the  buggy,  until  brought  up  with  a  jerk 
by  the  powerful  arms  of  his  driver.  The  shaft-band 
had  broken  and  the  buggy  had  run  upon  the  horse's 
rump,  and  the  shafts  stuck  up  almost  at  right  angles 
over  his  back.  The  roan  stood  trembling  with  the  half 
turned,  inquisitive  muzzle  of  the  sightless  horse  —  a 
paralysis  of  fear  all  over  his  face.  But  when  Bud  came 
forward  and  touched  his  face  and  stroked  it,  the  fear 
vanished,  and  the  old  roan  bobbed  his  tail  up  and  down 
and  wiggled  his  head  re-assuringly  and  apologetically. 
"  Wai,  I  declar,  Bishop,"  grinned  Bud,  "  kin  yo'  crit 
ter  fetch  a  caper?" 


COTTONTOWN  185 

The  Bishop  got  leisurely  out  of  his  buggy,  pulled 
down  the  shafts  and  tied  up  the  girth  before  he  spoke. 
Then  he  gave  a  puckering  hitch  to  his  underlip  and 
deposited  in  the  sand,  with  a  puddling  plunk,  the  half 
cup  of  tobacco  juice  that  had  closed  up  his  mouth. 

He  stepped  back  and  said  very  sternly : 

"Whoa,  Ben  Butler!" 

"  Why,  he'un's  sleep  a'ready,"  grinned  Bud. 

The  Bishop  glanced  at  the  bowed  head,  cocked  hind 
foot  and  listless  tail:  "  Sof'nin'  of  the  brain,  Bud," 
smiled  the  Bishop ;  "  they  say  when  old  folks  begin  to 
take  it  they  jus'  go  to  sleep  while  sett  in'  up  talkin'. 
Now,  a  horse,  Bud,"  he  said,  striking  an  attitude  for  a 
discussion  on  his  favorite  topic,  "  a  horse  is  like  a  man  — • 
he  must  have  some  meanness  or  he  c'udn't  live,  an' 
some  goodness  or  nobody  else  c'ud  live.  But  git  in, 
Bud,  and  let's  go  along  to  meetin' — 'pears  like  it's  get- 
tin'  late." 

This  was  what  Bud  had  been  listening  for.  This  was 
the  treat  of  the  week  for  him  —  to  ride  to  meetin'  with 
the  Bishop.  Bud,  a  slubber-slave  —  henpecked  at  home, 
browbeaten  and  cowed  at  the  mill,  timid,  scared,  "  an' 
powerful  slow-mouthed,"  as  his  spouse  termed  it,  wor 
shipped  the  old  Bishop  and  had  no  greater  pleasure  in 
life,  after  his  hard  week's  work,  than  "  to  ride  to  meetin' 
with  the  old  man  an'  jes'  hear  him  narrate." 

The  Bishop's  great,  sympathetic  soul  went  out  to  the 
poor  fellow,  and  though  he  had  rather  spend  the  next 
two  miles  of  Ben  Butler's  slow  journey  to  church  in 
thinking  over  his  sermon,  he  never  failed,  as  he  termed 
it,  "  to  pick  up  charity  even  on  the  road-side,"  and  it 


186         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

was  pretty  to  see  how  the  old  man  would  turn  loose  his 
crude  histrionic  talent  to  amuse  the  slubber.  He  knew, 
too,  that  Bud  was  foolish  about  horses,  and  that  Ben 
Butler  was  his  model! 

They  got  into  the  old  buggy,  and  Ben  Butler  began  to 
draw  it  slowly  along  the  sandy  road  to  the  little  church, 
two  miles  away  up  the  mountain  side. 


CHAPTER  II 

BEN    BUTLER 

BUD  was  now  in  a  seventh  heaven.     He  was  riding 
behind   Ben   Butler,   the   greatest   horse    in   the 
world,  and  talking  to  the  Bishop,  the  only  per 
son  who  ever  heard  the  sound  of  his  voice,  save  in  depre 
catory  and  scary  grunts. 

It  was  touching  to  see  how  the  old  man  humored  the 
simple  and  imposed-upon  creature  at  his  side.  It  was 
beautiful  to  see  how,  forgetting  himself  and  his  ser 
mon,  he  prepared  to  entertain,  in  his  quaint  way,  this 
slave  to  the  slubbing  machine. 

Bud  looked  fondly  at  the  Bishop  —  then  admiringly 
at  Ben  Butler.  He  drew  a  long  breath  of  pure  air,  and 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  seat,  prepared  to  jump  if 
necessary;  for  Bud  was  mortally  afraid  of  being  in  a 
runaway,  and  his  scared  eyes  seemed  to  be  looking  for 
the  soft  places  n  the  road. 

"  Bishop,"  he  drawled  after  a  while,  "  huc-cum  you 
name  sech  a  hoss  "•  —  pointing  to  the  old  roan  — "  sech 
a  grand  hoss,  for  sech  a  man  —  sech  a  man  as  he  was," 
he  added  humbly. 

"  Did  you  ever  notice  Ben  Butler's  eyes,  Bud  ? " 
asked  the  old  man,  knowingly. 

"  Blind,"  said  Bud  sadly,  shaking  his  head  — "  too 
bad  —  too  bad  —  great  —  great  hoss !  " 

187 


188         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  Yes,  but  the  leds,  Bud  —  that  hoss,  Ben  Butler 
there,  holds  a  world's  record  —  he's  the  only  cock-eyed 
hoss  in  the  world." 

"  You  don't  say  so  —  that  critter !  —  cock-eyed?  " 
Bud  laughed  and  slapped  his  leg  gleefully.  "  Didn't 
I  always  tell  you  so?  World's  record  —  great  — 
great !  " 

Then  it  broke  gradually  through  on  Bud's  dull  mind. 

He  slapped  his  leg  again.  "  An'  him  —  his  name 
sake  —  he  was  cock-eyed,  too  —  I  seed  him  onct  at  New 
'Leens." 

"  Don't  you  never  trust  a  cock-eyed  man,  Bud.  He'll 
flicker  on  you  in  the  home-stretch.  I've  tried  it  an' 
it  never  fails.  Love  him,  but  don't  trust  him.  The 
world  is  full  of  folks  we  oughter  love,  but  not  trust." 

"No  —  I  never  will,"  said  Bud  as  thoughtfully  as  he 
knew  how  to  be  — "  nor  a  cock-eyed  'oman  neither.  My 
wife's  cock-eyed,"  he  added. 

He  was  silent  a  moment.  Then  he  showed  the  old  man 
a  scar  on  his  forehead :  "  She  done  that  last  month  — 
busted  a  plate  on  my  head." 

"  That's  bad,"  said  the  Bishop  consolingly  — "  but 
you  ortenter  aggravate  her,  Bud." 

"  That's  so  —  I  ortenter  —  least-wise,  not  whilst 
there's  any  crockery  in  the  house,"  said  Bud  sadly. 

"  There's  another  thing  about  this  hoss,"  went  on 
the  Bishop  — "  he's  always  spoony  on  mules.  He  ain't 
happy  if  he  can't  hang  over  the  front  gate  spoonin' 
with  every  stray  mule  that  comes  along.  There's  old 
long-eared  Lize  that  he's  dead  stuck  on  —  if  he  c'u'd 
write  he'd  be  composin'  a  sonnet  to  her  ears,  like  poets 


BEN  BUTLER  189 

do  to  their  lady  love's  —  callin'  them  Star  Pointers  of 
a  Greater  Hope,  I  reck'n,  an'  all  that.  Why,  he'd  ruther 
hold  hands  by  moonlight  with  some  old  Maria  mule  than 
to  set  up  by  lamplight  with  a  thoroughbred  filly." 

"  Great  —  great !  "  said  Bud  slapping  his  leg  — 
"  didn't  I  tell  you  so?  " 

"  So  I  named  him  Ben  Butler  when  he  was  born. 
That  was  right  after  the  war,  an'  I  hated  old  Ben  so  an' 
loved  hosses  so,  I  thought  ef  I'd  name  my  colt  for  old 
Ben  maybe  I'd  learn  to  love  him,  in  time." 

Bud  shook  his  head.      "  That's  agin  nature,  Bishop." 

"  But  I  have,  Bud  —  sho'  as  you  are  born  I  love  old 
Ben  Butler."  He  lowered  his  voice  to  an  earnest 
whisper :  "I  ain't  never  told  you  what  he  done  for  po' 
Cap'n  Tom." 

"  Never  heurd  o'  Cap'n  Tom." 

The  Bishop  looked  hurt.  "  Never  mind,  Bud,  you 
wouldn't  understand.  But  maybe  you  will  ketch  this, 
listen  now." 

Bud  listened  intently  with  his  head  on  one  side. 

"  I  ain't  never  hated  a  man  in  my  life  but  what  God 
has  let  me  live  long  enough  to  find  out  I  was  in  the 
wrong  —  dead  wrong.  There  are  Jews  and  Yankees. 
I  "useter  hate  'em  worse'n  sin  —  but  now  what  do  you 
reckon?" 

"One  on  'em  busted  a  plate  on  yo?  head?"  asked 
Bud. 

"  Jesus  Christ  was  a  Jew,  an'  Cap'n  Tom  jined  the 
Yankees." 

"  Bud,"  he  said  cheerily  after  a  pause,  "  did  I  ever 
tell  you  the  story  of  this  here  Ben  Butler  here?  " 


190         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Bud's  eyes  grew  bright  and  he  slapped  his  leg  again. 

"  Well,"  said  the  old  man,  brightening  up  into  one  of 
his  funny  moods,  "  you  know  my  first  wife  was  named 
Kathleen  —  Kathleen  Galloway  when  she  was  a  gal,  an' 
she  was  the  pretties'  gal  in  the  settlement  an'  could  go 
all  the  gaits  both  saddle  an'  harness.  She  vras  han'som' 
as  a  three-year-old  an'  cu'd  out-dance,  out-ride,  out- 
sing  an'  out-flirt  any  other  gal  that  ever  come  down  the 
pike.  When  she  got  her  Sunday  harness  on  an'  began 
to  move,  she  made  all  the  other  gals  look  like  they  were 
nailed  to  the  road-side.  It's  true,  she  needed  a  little 
weight  in  front  to  balance  her,  an'  she  had  a  lot  of  gin 
ger  in  her  make-up,  but  she  was  straight  and  sound, 
didn't  wear  anything  but  the  harness  an'  never  teched 
herself  anywhere  nor  cross-fired  nor  hit  her  knees." 

"  Good  —  great !  "  said  Bud,  slapping  his  leg. 

"  O,  she  was  beautiful,  Bud,  with  that  silky  hair  that 
'ud  make  a  thoroughbred  filly's  look  coarse  as  sheep's 
wool,  an'  two  mischief-lovin'  eyes  an'  a  heart  that  was 
all  gold.  Bud  —  Bud  "  —  there  was  a  huskiness  in  the 
old  man's  voice  — "  I  know  I  can  tell  you  because  it  will 
never  come  back  to  me  ag'in,  but  I  love  that  Kathleen 
now  as  I  did  then.  A  man  may  marry  many  times,  but 
he  can  never  love  but  once.  Sometimes  it's  his  fust 
wife,  sometimes  his  secon',  an'  often  its  the  sweetheart 
he  never  got  —  but  he  loved  only  one  of  'em  the  right 
way,  an'  up  yander,  in  some  other  star,  where  spirits  that 
are  alike  meet  in  one  eternal  wedlock,  they'll  be  one  there 
forever." 

"  Her  daddy,  old  man  Galloway,  had  a  thoroughbred 
filly  that  he  named  Kathleena  for  his  daughter,  an'  she 


BEN  BUTLER  191 

c'ud  do  anything  that  the  gal  left  out.  An*  one  day 
when  she  took  the  bit  in  her  teeth  an'  run  a  quarter  in 
twenty-five  seconds,  she  sot  'em  all  wild  an'  lots  of  fellers 
tried  to  buy  the  filly  an'  get  the  old  man  to  throw  in 
the  gal  for  her  keep  an'  board." 

"  I  was  one  of  'em.  I  was  clerkin'  for  the  old  man  an' 
boardin'  in  the  house,  an'  whenever  a  young  feller  begins 
to  board  in  a  house  where  there  is  a  thoroughbred  gal, 
the  nex'  thing  he  knows  he'll  be  — " 

"  Buckled  in  the  traces,"  cried  Bud  slapping  his  leg 
gleefully,  at  this,  his  first  product  of  brilliancy. 

The  old  man  smiled :  "  Ton  my  word,  Bud,  you're 
gittin'  so  smart.  I  don't  know  what  I'll  be  doin'  with 
you  —  so  'riginal  an'  smart.  Why,  you'll  quit  keepin' 
an  old  man's  company  —  like  me.  I  won't  be  able  to 
entertain  you  at  all.  But,  as  I  was  sayin',  the  next  thing 
he  knows,  he'll  be  one  of  the  family." 

"  So  me  an'  Kathleen,  we  soon  got  spoony  an'  wanted 
to  marry.  Lots  of  'em  wanted  to  marry  her,  but  I 
drawed  the  pole  an'  was  the  only  one  she'd  take  as  a 
runnin'  mate.  So  I  went  after  the  old  man  this  a  way : 
I  told  him  I'd  buy  the  filly  if  he'd  give  me  Kathleen.  I 
never  will  f orgit  what  he  said :  '  They  ain't  narry  one 
of  'em  for  sale,  swap  or  hire,  an'  I  wish  you  young  fel 
lers  'ud  tend  to  yo'  own  business  an'  let  my  fillies  alone. 
I'm  gwinter  bus'  the  wurl's  record  wid  'em  both  —  Kath- 
leena  the  runnin'  record  an'  Kathleen  the  gal  record,  so 
be  damn  to  you  an'  don't  pester  me  no  mo'.'  " 

"  Did  he  say  damn?  "  asked  Bud  aghast  —  that  such 
a  word  should  ever  come  from  the  Bishop. 

"  He  sho'  did,  Bud.     I  wouldn't  lie  about  the  old  man, 


192         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

now  that  he's  dead.  It  ain't  right  to  lie  about  dead 
people  —  even  to  make  'em  say  nice  an'  proper  things 
they  never  thought  of  whilst  alive.  If  we'd  stop  lyin' 
about  the  ungodly  dead  an'  tell  the  truth  about  'em, 
maybe  the  livin'  'ud  stop  tryin'  to  foller  after  'em  in 
that  respect.  As  it  is,  every  one  of  'em  knows  that  no 
matter  how  wicked  he  lives  there'll  be  a  lot  o'  nice  lies 
told  over  him  after  he's  gone,  an'  a  monument  erected, 
maybe,  to  tell  how  good  he  was.  An'  there's  another 
lot  of  half  pious  folks  in  the  wurl  it  'ud  help  —  kind  o' 
sissy  pious  folks  —  that  jus'  do  manage  to  miss  all  the 
fun  in  the  world  an'  jus'  are  mean  enough  to  ketch  hell 
in  the  nex'.  Get  religion,  but  don't  get  the  sissy  kind. 
So  I  am  for  tellin'  it  about  old  man  Galloway  jus'  as 
he  was. 

"  You  orter  heard  him  swear,  Bud  —  it  was  part  of 
his  religion.  An'  wherever  he  is  to-day  in  that  other 
world,  he  is  at  it  yet,  for  in  that  other  life,  Bud,  we're 
just  ourselves  on  a  bigger  scale  than  we  are  in  this.  He 
used  to  cuss  the  clerks  around  the  store  jus'  from  habit, 
an'  when  I  went  to  work  for  him  he  said : 

"  '  Young  man,  maybe  I'll  cuss  you  out  some  mornin', 
but  don't  pay  no  'tention  to  it  —  it's  just  a  habit  I've 
got  into,  an'  the  boys  all  understand  it.' 

"  '  Glad  you  told  me,'  I  said,  lookin'  him  square  in  the 
eye  — '  one  confidence  deserves  another.  I've  got  a  nasty 
habit  of  my  own,  but  I  hope  you  won't  pay  no  'tention 
to  it,  for  it's  a  habit,  an'  I  can't  help  it.  I  don't  mean 
nothin'  by  it,  an'  the  boys  all  understand  it,  but  when 
a  man  cusses  me  I  allers  knock  him  down  —  do  it  befo' 
I  think  '—  I  said  — '  jes'  a  habit  I've  got.' 


BEN  BUTLER  198 

"  Well,  he  never  cussed  me  all  the  time  I  was  there. 
My  stock  went  up  with  the  old  man  an'  my  chances  was 
good  to  get  the  gal,  if  I  hadn't  made  a  fool  hoss-trade ; 
for  with  old  man  Galloway  a  good  hoss-trade  covered 
all  the  multitude  of  sins  in  a  man  that  charity  now  does 
in  religion.  In  them  days  a  man  might  have  all  the 
learnin'  and  virtues  an'  graces,  but  if  he  cudn't  trade 
hosses  he  was  tinklin'  brass  an'  soundin'  cymbal  in  that 
community. 

"  The  man  that  thro  wed  the  silk  into  me  was  Jud  Car 
penter  —  the  same  feller  that's  now  the  Whipper-in  for 
these  mills.  Now,  don't  be  scared,"  said  the  old  man 
soothingly  as  Bud's  scary  eyes  looked  about  him  and  he 
clutched  the  buggy  as  if  he  would  jump  out — "he'll 
not  pester  you  now  —  he's  kept  away  from  me  ever  since. 
He  swapped  me  a  black  boss  with  a  star  an'  snip, 
that  looked  like  the  genuine  thing,  but  was  about  the 
neatest  turned  gold-brick  that  was  ever  put  on  an  unsus- 
pectin'  millionaire. 

"  Well,  in  the  trade  he  simply  robbed  me  of  a  fine 
mare  I  had,  that  cost  me  one-an'-a-quarter.  Kathleen 
an'  me  was  already  engaged,  but  when  old  man  Galloway 
heard  of  it,  he  told  me  the  jig  was  up  an'  no  such 
double-barrel  idiot  as  I  was  shu'd  ever  leave  any  of  my 
colts  in  the  Galloway  paddock  —  that  when  he  looked 
over  his  gran'-chillun's  pedigree  he  didn't  wanter  see  all 
of  'em  crossin'  back  to  the  same  damned  fool!  Oh,  he 
was  nasty.  He  said  that  my  colts  was  dead  sho'  to  be 
luffers  with  wheels  in  their  heads,  an'  when  pinched 
they'd  quit,  an'  when  collared  they'd  lay  down.  That 
there  was  a  yaller  streak  in  me  that  was  already  pilin' 
13 


194         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

up  coupons  on  the  future  for  tears  and  heartaches  an', 
maybe  a  gallows  or  two,  an'  a  lot  of  uncomplimentary 
talk  of  that  kind. 

"  Well,  Kathleen  cried,  an'  I  wept,  an'  I'll  never  for- 
git  the  night  she  gave  me  a  little  good-bye  kiss  out 
under  the  big  oak  tree  an'  told  me  we'd  hafter  part. 

"  The  old  man  maybe  sized  me  up  all  right  as  bein'  a 
fool,  but  he  missed  it  on  my  bein'  a  quitter.  I  had  no 
notion  of  being  fired  an'  blistered  an'  turned  out  to  grass 
that  early  in  the  game.  I  wrote  her  a  poem  every  other 
day,  an'  lied  between  heats,  till  the  po'  gal  was  nearly 
crazy,  an'  when  I  finally  got  it  into  her  head  that  if  it 
was  a  busted  blood  vessel  with  the  old  man,  it  was  a 
busted  heart  with  me,  she  cried  a  little  mo'  an'  consented 
to  run  off  with  me  an'  take  the  chances  of  the  village 
doctor  cuppin'  the  old  man  at  the  right  time. 

"  The  old  lady  was  on  my  side  and  helped  things 
along.  I  had  everything  fixed  even  to  the  moon  which 
was  shinin'  jes'  bright  enough  to  carry  us  to  the  Jus 
tice's  without  a  lantern,  some  three  miles  away,  an'  into 
the  nex'  county. 

"  I'll  never  forgit  how  the  night  looked  as  I  rode  over 
after  her,  how  the  wild-flowers  smelt,  an'  the  fresh  dew 
on  the  leaves.  I  remember  that  I  even  heard  a  mockin'- 
bird  wake  up  about  midnight  as  I  tied  my  hoss  to  a  lim' 
in  the  orchard  nearby,  an'  slipped  aroun'  to  meet  Kath 
leen  at  the  bars  behin'  the  house.  It  was  a  half  mile 
to  the  house  an'  I  was  slippin'  through  the  sugar-maple 
trees  along  the  path  we'd  both  walked  so  often  befo' 
when  I  saw  what  I  thought  was  Kathleen  comin'  towards 
me.  I  ran  to  meet  her.  It  wa'n't  Kathleen,  but  her 


BEN  BUTLER  195 

mother  —  an'  she  told  me  to  git  in  a  hurry,  that  the  old 
man  knew  all,  had  locked  Kathleen  up  in  the  kitchen, 
turned  the  brindle  dog  loose  in  the  yard,  an'  was  hidin' 
in  the  woods  nigh  the  barn,  with  his  gun  loaded  with 
bird-shot,  an'  that  if  I  went  any  further  the  chances  were 
I'd  not  sit  down  agin  for  a  year.  She  had  slipped 
around  through  the  woods  just  to  warn  me. 

"  Of  course  I  wanted  to  fight  an'  take  her  anyway  - 
kill  the  dog  an'  the  old  man,  storm  the  kitchen  an'  run 
off  with  Kathleen  in  my  arms  as  they  do- in  novels.  But 
the  old  lady  said  she  didn't  want  the  dog  hurt  —  it  being 
a  valuable  coon-dog, —  and  that  I  was  to  go  away  out 
of  the  county  an'  wait  for  a  better  time. 

"  It  mighty  nigh  broke  me  up,  but  I  decided  the  old 
lady  was  right  an'  I'd  go  away.  But  'long  towards  the 
shank  of  the  night,  after  I  had  put  up  my  boss,  the  moon 
was  still  shinin',  an'  I  cudn't  sleep  for  thinkin'  of  Kath 
leen.  I  stole  afoot  over  to  her  house  just  to  look  at  her 
window.  The  house  was  all  quiet  an'  even  the  brindle 
dog  was  asleep.  I  threw  kisses  at  her  bed-room  win 
dow,  but  even  then  I  c'udn't  go  away,  so  I  slipped  around 
to  the  barn  and  laid  down  in  the  hay  to  think  over  my 
hard  luck.  My  heart  ached  an'  burned  an'  I  was  nigh 
dead  with  love. 

"  I  wondered  if  I'd  ever  get  her,  if  they'd  wean  her 
from  me,  an'  give  her  to  the  rich  little  feller  whose  fine 
farm  j'ined  the  old  man's  an'  who  the  old  man  was 
wuckin'  fur  —  whether  the  two  wouldn't  over-persuade 
her  whilst  I  was  gone.  For  I'd  made  up  my  mind  I'd 
go  befo'  daylight  —  that  there  wasn't  anything  else  for 
me  to  do. 


196         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  I  was  layin'  in  the  hay,  an'  boylike,  the  tears  was 
rollin'  down.  If  I  c'ud  only  kiss  her  han'  befo'  I  left  — 
if  I  c'ud  only  see  her  face  at  the  winder ! 

"  I  must  have  sobbed  out  loud,  for  jus'  then  I  heard 
a  gentle,  sympathetic  whinny  an'  a  cold,  inquisitive  lit 
tle  muzzle  was  thrust  into  my  face,  as  I  lay  on  my  back 
with  my  heart  nearly  busted.  It  was  Kathleena,  an'  I 
rubbed  my  hot  face  against  her  cool  cheek  —  for  it 
seemed  so  human  of  her  to  come  an'  try  to  console  me,, 
an'  I  put  my  arms  around  her  neck  an'  kissed  her  silky 
mane  an'  imagined  it  was  Kathleen's  hair. 

"  Oh,  I  was  heart-broke  an'  silly. 

"  Then  all  at  onct  a  thought  came  to  me,  an'  I  slipped 
the  bridle  an'  saddle  on  her  an'  led  her  out  at  the  back 
door,  an'  I  scratched  this  on  a  slip  of  paper  an'  stuck  it 
on  the  barn  do' : 

"  'To  old  man  Galloway: 

"  *  You  wouldn't  let  me  'lope  with  yo'  dorter,  so  I've 
'loped  with  yo'  filly,  an'  you'll  never  see  hair  nor  hide  of 
her  till  you  send  me  word  to  come  back  to  this  house  an' 
fetch  a  preacher.9 

(  Signed  )  HUliard  Watts. '  " 

The  old  man  smiled,  and  Bud  slapped  his  leg  glee 
fully. 

"  Great  —  great !  Oh  my,  but  who'd  a  thought  of 
it?"  he  grunted. 

"  They  say  it  'ud  done  you  good  to  have  been  there 
the  nex'  mornin'  an'  heurd  the  cussin'  recurd  busted  — 
but  me  an'  the  filly  was  forty  miles  away.     He  got  out 


BEN  BUTLER  197 

a  warrant  for  me  for  hoss-stealin',  but  the  sheriff  was 
for  me,  an'  though  he  hunted  high  'an'  low  he  never 
could  find  me." 

"  Well,  it  went  on  for  a  month,  an'  I  got  the  old 
man's  note,  sent  by  the  sheriff: 

"  *  To  HUliard  Watts,  Wher-Ever  Found. 
"  *  Come  on  home  an'  fetch  yo'  preacher.     Can't  af 
ford  to  loose  the  filly,  an9  the  gal  has  been  off  her  feed 
ever  since  you  left.  Jobe  Galloway.1 

"  Oh,  Bud,  I'll  never  forgit  that  home-comin'  when 
she  met  me  at  the  gate  an'  kissed  me  an'  laughed  a  little 
an'  cried  a  heap,  an'  we  walked  in  the  little  parlor  an' 
the  preacher  made  us  one. 

"  Nor  of  that  happy,  happy  year,  when  all  life  seemed 
a  sweet  dream  now  as  I  look  back,  an'  even  the  memory 
of  it  keeps  me  happy.  Memory  is  a  land  that  never 
changes  in  a  world  of  changes,  an'  that  should  show  us 
our  soul  is  immortal,  for  memory  is  only  the  reflection 
of  our  soul." 

His  voice  grew  more  tender,  and  low :  "  Toward  the 
last  of  the  year  I  seed  her  makin'  little  things  slyly  an' 
hidin'  'em  away  in  the  bureau  drawer,  an'  one  night  she 
put  away  a  tiny  half-finished  little  dress  with  the  needle 
stickin'  in  the  hem  —  just  as  she  left  it  —  just  as  her 
beautiful  hands  made  the  last  stitch  they  ever  made  on 
earth. 

"  O  Bud,  Bud,  out  of  this  blow  come  the  sweetest 
thought  I  ever  had,  an'  I  know  from  that  day  that  this 
life  ain't  all,  that  we'll  live  agin  as  sho'  as  God  lives  an' 


198         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

is  just  —  an'  no  man  can  doubt  that.  No  —  no  —  Bud, 
this  life  ain't  all,  because  its  God's  unvarying  law  to 
finish  things.  That  tree  there  is  finished,  an'  them  birds, 
they  are  finished,  an'  that  flower  by  the  roadside  an' 
the  mountain  yonder  an'  the  world  an'  the  stars  an'  the 
sun.  An'  we're  mo'  than  they  be,  Bud  —  even  the  tim 
es'  soul,  like  Kathleen's  little  one  that  jes'  opened  its 
eyes  an'  smiled  an'  died,  when  its  mammy  died.  It  had 
something  that  the  trees  an'  birds  an'  mountains  didn't, 
have  —  a  soul  —  an'  don't  you  kno'  He'll  finish  all  such 
lives  up  yonder?  He'll  pay  it  back  a  thousandfold  for 
what  he  cuts  off  here." 

Bud  wept  because  the  tears  were  running  down  the 
old  man's  cheeks.  He  wanted  to  say  something,  but  he 
could  not  speak.  That  queer  feeling  that  came  over 
him  at  times  and  made  him  silent  had  come  again. 


CHAPTER  III       - 

AN    ANSWER    TO    PRAYER 

THEN  the  old  man  remembered  that  he  was  mak 
ing  Bud  suffer  with  his  own  sorrow,  and  when 
Bud  looked  at  him  again  the  Bishop  had  wiped 
his  eyes  on  the  back  of  his  hand  and  was  smiling. 

Ben  Butler,  unknown  to  either,  had  come  to  a  stand 
still. 

The  Bishop  broke  out  in  a  cheery  tone: 

"  My,  how  far  off  the  subject  I  got !  I  started  out  to 
tell  you  all  about  Ben  Butler,  and  —  and  —  how  he 
come  in  answer  to  prayer,"  said  the  Bishop  solemnly. 

Bud  grinned :  "  It  muster  been,  *  Now  I  lay  me  down 
to  sleep.'  " 

The  Bishop  laughed:  "Well  I'll  swun  if  he  ain't 
sound  asleep  sho'  'nuff ."  He  laughed  ^gain :  "  Bud, 
you're  gittin'  too  bright  for  anything.  I  jes'  don't  see 
how  the  old  man's  gwinter  talk  to  you  much  longer 
'thout  he  goes  to  school  agin." 

"  No  —  Ben  Butler  is  a  answer  to  prayer,"  he  went 
on. 

"  The  trouble  with  the  world  is  it  don't  pray  enough. 
Prayer  puts  God  into  us,  Bud  —  we're  all  a  little  part 
of  God,  even  the  worst  of  us,  an'  we  can  make  it  big  or 
let  it  die  out  accordin'  as  we  pray.  If  we  stop  prayin' 
God  jes'  dies  out  in  us.  Of  course  God  don't  answer  any 

199 


200         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

fool  prayer,  for  while  we're  here  we  are  nothin'  but  a 
bundle  of  laws,  an'  the  same  unknown  law  that  moves  the 
world  around  makes  yo'  heart  beat.  But  God  is  behind 
the  law,  an'  if  you  get  in  harmony  with  God's  laws  an' 
pray,  He'll  answer  them.  Christ  knowed  this,  an'  there 
was  some  things  that  even  He  wouldn't  ask  for.  When 
the  Devil  tempted  Him  to  jump  off  the  top  of  the  moun 
tain,  He  drawed  the  line  right  there,  for  He  knowed  if 
God  saved  Him  by  stoppin'  the  law  of  gravitation  it 
meant  the  wreck  of  the  world." 

"  Bud,"  he  went  on  earnestly,  "  I've  lived  a  long 
time  an'  seed  a  heap  o'  things,  an'  the  plaines'  thing  I 
ever  seed  in  my  life  is  that  two  generations  of  scoffers 
will  breed  a  coward,  an'  three  of  'em  a  thief,  an'  that  the 
world  moves  on  only  in  proportion  as  it's  got  faith  in 
God. 

"  I  was  ruined  after  the  war  —  broken  —  busted  — 
ruined!  An'  I  owed  five  hundred  dollars  on  the  little 
home  up  yander  on  the  mountain.  When  I  come  back 
home  from  the  army  I  didn't  have  nothin'  but  one  old 
mare,  —  a  daughter  of  that  Kathleena  I  told  you  about. 
I  knowed  I  was  gone  if  I  lost  that  little  home,  an'  so  one 
night  I  prayed  to  the  Lord  about  it  an'  then  it  come  to 
me  as  clear  as  it  come  to  Moses  in  the  burnin'  bush. 
God  spoke  to  me  as  clear  as  he  did  to  Moses." 

"  How  did  he  say  it?  "  asked  Bud,  thoroughly  fright 
ened  and  looking  around  for  a  soft  spot  to  jump  and 
run. 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that,"  went  on  the  Bishop  — "  God 
don't  say  things  out  loud  —  He  jes'  brings  two  an'  two 
together  an'  expects  you  to  add  'em  an'  make  fo'.  He 


AN  ANSWER  TO  PRAYER  201 

gives  you  the  soil  an'  the  grain  an'  expects  you  to  plant, 
assurin'  you  of  rain  an'  sunshine  to  make  the  crop,  if 
you'll  only  wuck.  He  comes  into  yo'  life  with  the  laws 
of  life  an'  death  an'  takes  yo'  beloved,  an'  it's  His  way 
of  sayin'  to  you  that  this  life  ain't  all.  He  shows  you 
the  thief  an'  the  liar  an'  the  adulterer  all  aroun'  you, 
an'  if  you  feel  the  shock  of  it  an'  the  hate  of  it,  it's 
His  voice  tellin'  you  not  to  steal  an'  not  to  lie  an'  not  to 
be  impure.  You  think  only  of  money  until  you  make 
a  bad  break  an'  loose  it  all.  That's  His  voice  tellin' 
you  that  money  ain't  everything  in  life.  He  puts  oppor 
tunities  befo'  you,  an'  if  you  grasp  'em  it's  His  voice 
tellin'  you  to  prosper  an'  grow  fat  in  the  land.  No, 
He  don't  speak  out,  but  how  clearly  an'  unerringly  He 
does  speak  to  them  that  has  learned  to  listen  for  His 
voice ! 

"  I  rode  her  across  the  river  a  hundred  miles  up  in 
Marshall  County,  Tennessee,  and  mated  her  to  a  young 
horse  named  Tom  Hal.  Every  body  knows  about  him 
now,  but  God  told  me  about  him  fust. 

"  Then  I  knowed  jes'  as  well  as  I  am  settin'  in  this 
buggy  that  that  colt  was  gwinter  give  me  back  my  little 
home  an'  a  chance  in  life.  Of  course,  I  told  everybody 
'bout  it  an'  they  all  laughed  at  me  —  jes'  like  they  all 
laughed  at  Noah  an'  Abraham  an'  Lot  an'  Moses,  an' 
if  I  do  say  it  —  Jesus  Christ.  But  thank  God  it  didn't 
pester  me  no  more'n  it  did  them." 

"  Well,  the  colt  come  ten  years  ago  —  an'  I  named 
him  Ben  Butler  —  cause  I  hated  old  Ben  Butler  so.  He 
had  my  oldest  son  shot  in  New  Orleans  like  he  did  many 
other  rebel  prisoners.  But  this  was  God's  colt  an'  God 


202         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

had  told  me  to  love  my  enemies  an'  do  good  to  them  that 
did  wrong  to  me,  an'  so  I  prayed  over  it  an'  named  him 
Ben  Butler,  hopin'  that  God  'ud  let  me  love  my  enemy 
for  the  love  I  bore  the  colt.     An'  He  has." 
Bud  shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"He  showed  me  I  was  wrong,  Bud,  to  hate  folks, 
an'  when  I  tell  you  of  po'  Cap'n  Tom  an'  how  good  Gen. 
Butler  was  to  him,  you'll  say  so,  too. 

"  From  the  very  start  Ben  Butler  was  a  wonder.  He 
came  with  fire  in  his  blood  an'  speed  in  his  heels. 

"  An'  I  trained  him.  Yes  —  from  the  time  I  was 
Gen.  Travis'  overseer  I  had  always  trained  his  hosses. 
I'm  one  of  them  preachers  that  believes  God  intended  the 
world  sh'ud  have  the  best  hosses,  as  He  intended  it  sh'ud 
have  the  best  men  an'  women.  Take  all  His  works, 
in  their  fitness  an'  goodness,  an'  you'll  see  He  never 
'lowed  for  a  scrub  an'  a  quitter  anywhere.  An'  so  when 
He  gave  me  this  tip  on  Ben  Butler's  speed  I  done 
the  rest. 

"  God  gives  us  the  tips  of  life,  but  He  expects  us  to 
make  them  into  the  dead  cinches. 

"  Oh,  they  all  laughed  at  us,  of  course,  an'  nicknamed 
the  colt  Mister  Isaacs,  because,  like  Sarah's  son,  he  came 
in  answer  to  prayer.  An'  when  in  his  two-year-old  form, 
I  led  him  out  of  the  stable  one  cold,  icy  day,  an'  he  was 
full  of  play  an'  r'ared  an'  fell  an'  knocked  down  his  hip, 
they  said  that  'ud  fix  Mister  Isaacs. 

"  But  it  didn't  pester  me  at  all.  I  knowed  God  had 
done  bigger  things  in  this  world  than  fixin'  a  colt's  hip, 
an'  it  didn't  shake  my  faith.  I  kept  on  prayin'  an' 
kept  on  trainin'. 


AN  ANSWER  TO  PRAYER  203 

"  Well,  it  soon  told.  His  hip  was  down,  but  it  didn't 
stop  him  from  fly  in'.  As  a  three-year-old  he  paced  the 
Nashville  half  mile  track  in  one-one  flat,  an'  though 
they  offered  me  then  an'  there  a  thousand  dollars  for 
Ben  Butler,  I  told  'em  no, —  he  was  God's  colt  an'  I 
didn't  need  but  half  of  that  to  raise  the  mortgage,  an' 
he'd  do  that  the  first  time  he  turned  round  in  a  race. 

"  I  drove  him  that  race  myself,  pulled  down  the  five 
hundred  dollar  purse,  refused  all  their  fine  offers  for 
Ben  Butler,  an'  me  an'  him's  been  missionaryin'  round 
here  ever  since." 

"  Great  hoss  —  great !  "  said  Bud,  his  eyes  sparkling, 
— "  allers   told  you   so !     Think   I'll   get  out   and  hug 
him." 

This  he  did  while  the  Bishop  sat  smiling.     But  in  the 

embrace  Ben  Butler  planted  a  fore  foot  on  Bud's  great 

toe.     Bud  came  back  limping  and  whimpering  with  pain. 

"Now    there,    Bud,"    said    the    Bishop,    consolingly. 

"  God  has  spoken  to  you  right  there." 

"What  'ud  He  say?"  asked  Bud,  looking  scary 
again. 

"  Why,  he  said  through  Nature's  law  an'  voice  that 
you  mustn't  hug  a  hoss  if  you  don't  want  yo'  toes 
tramped  on." 

"  Who  must  you  hug  then?  "  asked  Bud. 
;<  Yo'  wife,  if  you  can't  do  no  better,"  said  the  Bishop 
quietly. 

"  My  wife's  wussern  a  hoss,"  said  Bud  sadly  — "  she 
bites.     I'm  sorry  you  didn't  take  that  thar  thousan'  dol 
lars  for  him,"  he  said,"  looking  at  his  bleeding  toe. 
"  Bud,"   said  the  old  man   sternly,   "  don't  say  that 


204         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

no  mo'.  It  mou't  make  me  think  you  are  one  of  them 
selfish  dogs  that  thinks  money'll.  do  anything.  Then 
I'd  hafter  watch  you,  for  I'd  know  you'd  do  anything 
for  money." 

Bud  crawled  in  rather  crest-fallen,  and  they  drove  on. 


CHAPTER  IV 

HOW    THE    BISHOP    FROZE 

THE   Bishop   laughed   outright   as   his   mind   went 
back  again. 

"  Well,"  he  went  on  reminiscently,  "  I'll  have  to 
finish  my  tale  an'  tell  you  how  I  throwed  the  cold  steel 
into  Jud  Carpenter  when  I  got  back.  I  saw  I  had  it  to 
do,  to  work  back  into  my  daddy-in-law's  graces  an'  save 
my  reputation. 

"  Now,  Jud  had  lied  to  me  an'  swindled  me  terribly, 
when  he  put  off  that  old  no-count  hoss  on  me.  Of 
course,  I  might  have  sued  him,  for  a  lie  is  a  microbe 
which  naturally  develops  into  a  lawyer's  fee.  But  while 
it's  a  terrible  braggart,  it's  really  cowardly  an'  delicate, 
an'  will  die  of  lock-jaw  if  you  only  pick  its  thumb. 

"  So  I  breshed  up  that  old  black  to  split-silk  fine 
ness,  an'  turned  him  over  to  Dr.  Sykes,  a  friend  of  mine 
living  in  the  next  village.  An'  I  said  to  the  Doctor, 
'  Now  remember  he  is  yo'  hoss  until  Jud  Carpenter 
comes  an'  offers  you  two  hundred  dollars  for  him.* 

"  *  Will  he  be  fool  enough  to  do  it?  '  he  asked,  as  he 
looked  the  old  counterfeit  over. 

"  «  Wait  an'  see,'  I  said. 

"  I  said  nothin',  laid  low  an'  froze  an'  it  wa'n't  long 
befo'  Jud  come  'round  as  I  'lowed  he'd  do.  He  expected 
me  to  kick  an'  howl ;  but  as  I  took  it  all  so  nice  he  didn't 

205 


206         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

understand  it.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  the  best  thing 
to  do  when  the  other  feller  has  robbed  you  is  to  freeze. 
The  hunter  on  the  plain  knows  the  value  of  that,  an' 
that  he  can  freeze  an'  make  a  deer  walk  right  up  to 
him,  to  find  out  what  he  is.  Why,  a  rabbit  will  do  it, 
if  you  jump  him  quick,  an'  he  gets  confused  an'  don't 
know  jes'  what's  up;  an'  so  Jud  come  as  I  thort  he'd 
do.  He  couldn't  stan'  it  no  longer,  an'  he  wanted  to 
rub  it  in.  He  brought  his  crowd  to  enjoy  the  fun. 

"  *  Oh,  Mr.  Watts,'  he  said  grinnin',  '  how  do  you  like 
a  coal  black  stump-sucker? 

"  '  Well,'  I  said  indifferent  enough  — *  I've  knowed 
good  judges  of  bosses  to  make  a  hones'  mistake  now  an' 
then,  an'  sell  a  boss  to  a  customer  with  the  heaves  think- 
in'  he's  a  stump-sucker.  But  it  'ud  turn  out  to  be  only 
the  heaves  an'  easily  cured. 

"  '  Is  that  so?  '  said  Jud,  changing  his  tone. 

"  '  Yes,'  I  said,  '  an'  I've  knowed  better  judges  of 
bosses  to  sell  a  nervous  boss  for  a  balker  that  had  been 
balked  onct  by  a  rattle  head.  But  in  keerful  hands  I've 
seed  him  git  over  it,'  I  said,  indifferent  like. 

"<  Indeed?'  said  Jud. 

"  '  Yes,  Jud,'   said  I,  '  I've  knowed  real  hones'  boss 

traders  to  make  bad  breaks  of  that  kind,  now  and  then 

-honest   intentions   an'   all   that,  but  bad  judgment,' 

-  sez  I  — '  an'  I'll  cut  it  short  by  say  in'  that  I'll  just 

give  you  two  an'  a  half  if  you'll  match  that  no-count, 

wind  broken  black  as  you  tho'rt,  that  you  swapped  me.' 

"  '  Do  you  mean  it?  '  said  Jud,  solemn-like. 

"  '  I'll  make  a  bond  to  that  effect,'  I  said  solemnly. 


HOW  THE  BISHOP  FROZE  207 

"  Jud  went  off  thoughtful.  In  a  week  or  so  he  come 
back.  He  hung  aroun'  a  while  an'  said : 

"  '  I  was  up  in  the  country  the  other  day,  an'  do  you 
kno'  I  saw  a  dead  match  for  yo'  black?  Only  a  little 
slicker  an'  better  lookin' —  same  star  an'  white  hind  foot. 
As  nigh  like  him  as  one  black-eyed  pea  looks  like  an 
other.' 

"  '  Jud,'  I  said,  *  I  never  did  see  two  bosses  look  exactly 
alike.  You're  honestly  mistaken.' 

"'They  ain't  a  hair's  difference,'  he  said.  *  He's 
a  little  slicker  than  yours  —  that's  all  —  better  groomed 
than  the  one  in  yo'  barn.' 

"  '  I  reckon  he  is,'  said  I,  for  I  knew  very  well  there 
wa'n't  none  in  my  barn.  *  That's  strange,'  I  went  on, 
'  but  you  kno'  what  I  said.' 

"  '  Do  you  still  hold  to  that  offer?  '  he  axed. 

"  *  I'll  make  bond  with  my  daddy-in-law  on  it,'  I  said. 

"  '  Nuff  said,'  an'  Jud  was  gone.  The  next  day  he 
came  back  leading  the  black,  slicker  an'  hence  no-counter 
than  ever,  if  possible. 

"  '  Look  at  him,'  he  said  proudly  — '  a  dead  match  for 
yourn.  Jes'  han'  me  that  two  an'  a  half  an'  take  him. 
You  now  have  a  team  worth  a  thousan'.' 

"  I  looked  the  hoss  over  plum'  surprised  like. 

"  *  Why,  Jud,'  I  said  as  softly  as  I  cu'd,  for  I  was 
nigh  to  bustin,  an'  I  had  a  lot  of  friends  come  to  see  the 
sho',  an'  they  standin'  'round  stickin'  their  old  hats  in 
their  mouths  to  keep  from  explodiri' — c  Why,  Jud,  my 
dear  friend,'  I  said,  *  ain't  you  kind  o'  mistaken  about 
this?  I  said  a  match  for  the  black,  an'  it  peers  to  me 
like  you've  gone  an'  bought  the  black  hisse'f  an'  is 


208         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

tryin'  to  put  him  off  on  me.  No  —  no  —  my  kind 
frien',  you'll  not  fin'  anything  no-count  enuff  to  be  his 
match  on  this  terrestrial  ball.' 

"  By  this  time  you  cu'd  have  raked  Jud's  eyes  off  his 
face  with  a  soap-gourd. 

"'What?  w-h-a-t?  He  —  why  —  I  bought  him  of 
Dr.  Sykes.' 

"  '  Why,  that's  funny,'  I  said,  '  but  it  comes  in  handy 
all  round.  If  you'd  told  me  that  the  other  day  I  might 
have  told  you,'  I  said  — '  yes,  I  might  have,  but  I  doubt 
it  —  that  I'd  loaned  him  to  Dr.  Sykes  an'  told  him  when 
ever  you  offered  him  two  hundred  cash  for  him  to  let  him 
go.  Jes'  keep  him,'  sez  I,  '  till  you  find  his  mate,  an' 
I'll  take  an  oath  to  buy  'cm.'  " 

Bud  slapped  his  leg  an'  yelled  with  delight. 

"  Whew,"  said  the  Bishop  — "  not  so  loud.  We're  at 
the  church. 

"  But  remember,  Bud,  it's  good  policy  allers  to  freezec 
When  you're  in  doubt  —  freeze !  " 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  FLOCK 

THE  Bishop's  flock  consisted  of  two  distinct  classes: 
Cottontowners  and  Hillites. 

"  There's  only  a  fair  sprinklin'  of  Hillites 
that  lives  nigh  about  here,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  an'  they 
come  because  it  suits  them  better  than  the  high  Plutin' 
services  in  town.  When  a  Christian  gits  into  a  church 
that's  over  his  head,  he  is  soon  food  for  devil-fish." 

The  line  of  demarcation,  even  in  the  Bishop's  small 
flock,  was  easily  seen.  The  Hillites,  though  lean  and 
lanky,  were  swarthy,  healthy  and  full  of  life.  "  But 
Cottontown,"  said  the  Bishop,  as  he  looked  down  on  his 
congregation — "  Cottontown  jes'  naturally  feels  tired." 

It  was  true.  Years  in  the  factory  had  made  them 
dead,  listless,  soulless  and  ambitionless  creatures.  To 
look  into  their  faces  was  like  looking  into  the  cracked 
and  muddy  bottom  of  a  stream  which  once  ran. 

Their  children  were  there  also  —  little  tots,  many  of 
them,  who  worked  in  the  factory  because  no  man  nor 
woman  in  all  the  State  cared  enough  for  them  to  make 
a  fight  for  their  childhood. 

They  were  children  only  in  age.  Their  little  forms 
were  not  the  forms  of  children,  but  of  diminutive  men 
and  women,  on  whose  backs  the  burden  of  earning  their 

14  209 


210         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

living  had  been  laid,  ere  the  frames  had  acquired  the 
strength  to  bear  it. 

Stunted  in  mind  and  body,  they  were  little  solemn, 
pygmy  peoples,  whom  poverty  and  overwork  had  canned 
up  and  compressed  into  concentrated  extracts  of  human 
ity.  The  flavor  —  the  juices  of  childhood  —  had  been 
pressed  out. 

"  'N  no  wonder,"  thought  the  Bishop,  as  he  looked 
down  upon  them  from  his  crude  platform,  "  for  them 
little  things  works  six  days  every  week  in  the  factory 
from  sun-up  till  dark,  an'  often  into  the  night,  with 
jes'  forty  minutes  at  noon  to  bolt  their  food.  O  God," 
he  said  softly  to  himself,  "You  who  caused  a  stream  of 
water  to  spring  up  in  the  wilderness  that  the  life  of  an 
Ishmaelite  might  be  saved,  make  a  stream  of  sentiment 
to  flow  from  the  heart  of  the  world  to  save  these  little 
folks." 

Miss  Patsy  Butts,  whose  father,  Elder  Butts  of  the 
Hard-shell  faith,  owned  a  fertile  little  valley  farm  be 
yond  the  mountain,  was  organist.  She  was  fat  and  so 
red-faced  that  at  times  she  seemed  to  be  oiled. 

She  was  painfully  frank  and  suffered  from  acute 
earnestness. 

And  now,  being  marriageable,  she  looked  always 
about  her  with  shy,  quick,  expectant  glances. 

The  other  object  in  life,  to  Patsy,  was  to  watch  her 
younger  brother,  Archie  B.,  and  see  that  he  kept  out 
of  mischief.  And  perhaps  the  commonest  remark  of  her 
life  was: 

"  Maw,  jus'  look  at  Archie  B. !  " 

This  was  a  great  cross  for  Archie  B.,  who  had  been 


THE  FLOCK 

known  to  say  concerning  it :  "  If  I  ever  has  any  kids, 
I'll  never  let  the  old'uns  nuss  the  young'uns.  They 
gits  into  a  bossin'  kind  of  a  habit  that  sticks  to  'em  all 
they  lives." 

To-day  Miss  Patsy  was  radiantly  shy  and  happy, 
caused  by  the  fact  that  her  fat,  honest  feet  were  encased 
in  a  pair  of  beautiful  new  shoes,  the  uppers  of  which 
were  clasped  so  tightly  over  her  ankles  as  to  cause  the 
fat  members  to  bulge  in  creases  over  the  tops,  as  un 
comfortable  as  two  Sancho  Panzas  in  armor. 

"  Side-but'ners,"  said  Mrs.  Butts  triumphantly  to 
Mrs.  O'Hooligan  of  Cottontown, — "  side-but'ners  —  I 
got  'em  for  her  yistiddy  —  the  fust  that  this  town's  ever 
seed.  La,  but  it  was  a  job  gittin'  'em  on  Patsy.  I 
had  to  soak  her  legs  in  cold  water  nearly  all  night,  an' 
then  I  broke  every  knittin'  needle  in  the  house  abut'nin' 
them  side  but'ners. 

"  But  fashion  is  fashion,  an'  when  I  send  my  gal  out 
into  society,  I'll  send  her  in  style.  Patsy  Butts,"  she 
whispered  so  loud  that  everybody  on  her  side  of  the 
house  heard  her  — "  when  you  starts  up  that  ole  wheez- 
in'  one  gallus  organ,  go  slow  or  you'll  bust  them  side- 
but'ners  wide  open." 

When  the  Bishop  came  forward  to  preach  his  ser 
mon,  or  talk  to  his  flock,  as  he  called  it,  his  surplice  would 
have  astonished  anyone,  except  those  who  had  seen  him 
thus  attired  so  often.  A  stranger  might  have  laughed, 
but  he  would  not  have  laughed  long  —  the  old  man's 
earnestness,  sincerity,  reverence  and  devotion  were  over 
shadowing.  Its  pathos  was  too  deep  for  fun. 

Instead  of  a  clergyman's  frock  he  wore  a  faded  coat  of 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

blue  buttoned  up  to  his  neck.  It  had  been  the  coat  of 
an  officer  in  the  artillery,  and  had  evidently  passed 
through  the  Civil  War.  There  was  a  bullet  hole  in  the 
shoulder  and  a  sabre  cut  in  the  sleeve. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A    BISHOP    MILITANT 

NO  one  had  ever  heard  the  Bishop  explain  his  curi 
ous  surplice  but  once,  and  that  had  been  several 
years  before,  when  the  little  chapel,  by  the  aid 
of  a  concert  Miss  Alice  gave,  contributions  from  the  Ex 
celsior  Mill  headed  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kingsley,  and  other 
sources  had  been  furnished,  and  the  Bishop  came  for 
ward  to  make  his  first  talk : 

"  This  is  the  only  church  of  its  kind  in  the  worl',  I 
reckin,"  he  said.  "  I've  figured  it  out  an'  find  we're 
made  up  of  Baptis',  Metherdis',  Presbyterian,  'Piscopa- 
lian,  Cam'elites  an'  Hard-shells.  You've  'lected  me 
Bishop,  I  reckon,  'cause  I've  jined  all  of  'em,  an'  so 
far  as  I  know  I  am  the  only  man  in  the  WOP!'  who  ever 
done  that  an'  lived  to  tell  the  tale.  An'  I'm  not  ashamed 
to  say  it,  for  I've  allers  foun'  somethin'  in  each  one  of 
'em  that's  a  little  better  than  somethin'  in  the  other. 
An'  if  there's  any  other  church  that'll  teach  me  somethin' 
new  about  Jesus  Christ,  that  puffect  Man,  I'll  jine  it. 
I've  never  seed  a  church  that  had  Him  in  it  that  wa'n't 
good  enough  for  me." 

The  old  man  smiled  in  humorous  retrospection  as  he 
went  on: 

'  The  first  company   of  Christians   I  jined  was  the 
Hard-shells.     I  was  young  an'  a  raw  recruit  an'  nachully 

213 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

fell  into  the  awkward  squad.  I  liked  their  solar  plexus 
way  of  goin'  at  the  Devil,  an'  I  liked  the  way  they'd 
allers-  deal  out  a  good  ration  of  whiskey,  after  the  fight, 
to  ev'ry  true  soldier  of  the  Cross  —  especially  if  we  got 
our  feet  too  wet,  which  we  mos'  always  of'ntimes  gen'ally 
did." 

This  brought  out  visible  smiles  all  down  the  line,  from 
the  others  at  the  Hard-shells  and  their  custom  of  foot- 
washing. 

"  But  somehow7,"  went  on  the  old  man,  "  I  didn't  grow 
in  grace  —  spent  too  much  time  in  singin'  an'  takin' 
toddies  to  keep  off  the  effect  of  cold  from  wret  feet.  Good 
company,  but  I  wanted  to  go  higher,  so  I  drapt  into  the 
Baptis'  rigiment,  brave  an'  hones',  but  they  spen'  too 
much  time  a-campin'  in  the  valley  of  the  still  water,  an' 
when  on  the  march,  instid  of  buildin'  bridges  to  cross 
dry-shod  over  rivers  an'  cricks,  they  plunge  in  with  their 
guns  stropped  to  their  backs,  their  powder  tied  up  in 
their  socks  in  their  hats,  their  shoes  tied  'round  their 
necks  an'  their  butcher-knife  in  their  teeth.  After  they 
Ian'  they  seem  to  think  it's  the  greates'  thing  in  the 
worl'  that  they've  been  permitted  to  wade  through  water 
instead  of  crossin'  on  a  log,  an'  they  spen'  the  balance 
of  their  time  marchin'  'roun'  an'  singin' : 

"  '  Billows  of  mercy,  over  me  roll, 
Oceans  of  Faith   an'   Hope,   come  to  my   soul.' 

"  Don't  want  to  fly  to  heaven  —  want  to  swim  there. 
An'  if  they  find  too  much  Ian'  after  they  get  there, 
they'll  spen'  the  res'  of  eternity  prayin'  for  a  deluge. 


A  BISHOP  MILITANT  215 

"  Bes'  ole  relig'un  in  the  worl',  tho, —  good  fighters, 
too,  in  the  Lord's  cause.  Ole  timey,  an'  a  trifle  keerless 
about  their  accoutrements,  an'  too  much  water  nachully 
keeps  their  guns  rusty  an'  their  powder  damp,  but  if  it 
comes  to  a  square-up  fight  agin  the  cohorts  of  sin,  an' 
the  powder  in  their  pans  is  too  damp  for  flashin',  they'd 
jes'  as  soon  wade  in  with  the  butcher-knife  an'  the  meat 
axe.  I  nachully  out-grow'd  'em,  for  I  seed  if  the  Great 
Captain  'ud  command  us  all  to  jine  armies  an'  fight 
the  worl',  the  Baptis'  'ud  never  go  in,  unless  it  was  a 
sea-fight. 

"  From  them  to  the  Cam' elites  was  easy,  for  I  seed 
they  was  web- footed,  too.  The  only  difference  betwix' 
them  an'  the  Baptis'  is  that  they  are  willin'  to  jine  in 
with  any  other  rigiment,  provided  allers  that  you  let 
them  'pint  the  sappers  an'  miners  an'  blaze  out  the  way. 
Good  fellers,  tho',  an'  learned  me  lots.  They  beats  the 
worl'  for  standin'  up  for  each  other  an'  votin'  allers  for 
fust  place.  If  there's  a  promotion  in  camp  they  want 
it;  'n'  when  they  ain't  out  a-drillin'  their  companies 
they're  sho'  to  be  in  camp  'sputin'  with  other  rigiments 
as  to  how  to  do  it.  Good,  hones'  fighters,  tho',  anc? 
tort  me  how  to  use  my  side  arms  in  a  tight  place.  Scat- 
terin'  in  some  localities,  but  like  the  Baptises,  whenever 
you  find  a  mill-dam  there'll  be  their  camp  an'  plenty  o' 
corn. 

"  Lord,  how  I  did  enjoy  it  when  I  struck  the  Methodis' 
rigiment!  The  others  had  tort  me  faith  an'  zeal,  but 
these  tort  me  discipline.  They  are  the  best  drilled  lot 
in  the  army  of  the  Lord,  an'  their  drill  masters  run  all 
the  way  from  wet-nurses  to  old  maids.  For  furagin* 


216        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

an'  free  love  for  ev'rything  they  beats  the  worl',  an' 
they  pay  mo'  'tenshun  to  their  com'sary  department 
than  they  do  to  their  ord'nance.  They'll  march  any 
where  you  want  'em,  swim  rivers  or  build  bridges,  fight 
on  ship  or  sho',  strong  in  camp-meetin's  or  battle  songs, 
an'  when  they  go,  they  go  like  clockwuck  an'  carry  their 
dead  with  'em ! 

"  The  only  thing  they  need  is  an  incubator,  to  keep 
up  their  hennery  department  an'  supply  their  captains 
with  the  yellow  legs  of  the  land.  Oh,  but  I  love  them 
big  hearted  Methodists ! 

"  I  foun'  the  Presbyterian  phalanx  a  pow'ful  army, 
steady,  true  an'  ole-fashioned,  their  powder  strong  of 
brimstone  an'  sulphur  an'  their  ordnance  antique. 
Why,  they're  usin'  the  same  old  mortars  John  Knox 
fired  at  the  Popes,  an'  the  same  ole  blunderbusses  that 
scatter  wide  enough  to  cover  all  creation  an'  is  as  liable 
to  kick  an'  kill  anything  in  the  rear  as  in  front.  They 
won't  sleep  in  tents  an'  nothin'  suits  'em  better'n  being 
caught  in  a  shower  on  the  march.  In  battle  they  know 
no  fear,  for  they  know  no  ball  is  goin'  to  kill  you  if 
you're  predistined  to  be  hung.  In  the  fight  they  know 
no  stragglers  an'  fallers  from  grace. 

"  Ay,  but  they're  brave.  I  jined  'em  Sunday  night 
after  the  battle  of  Shiloh,  when  I  saw  one  of  their  cap 
tains  stan'  up  amid  the  dead  an'  dyin'  of  that  bloody 
field,  with  the  shells  from  the  Yankee  gun-boats  fall  in' 
aroun'  him.  Standin'  there  tellin'  of  God  an'  His  for 
giveness,  until  many  a  po'  dyin'  soldier,  both  frien'  an' 
foe,  like  the  thief  on  the  cross,  found  peace  at  the  last 
hour. 


A  BISHOP  MILITANT 

"  Befo'  I  jined  the  'Piscopal  corps  I  didn't  think  I 
cu'd  stan'  'em  —  too  high  furlutin'  for  my  raisin'. 
They  seemed  to  pay  mo'  attenshun  to  their  uniforms  than 
their  ordnance,  an'  their  drum-majors  outshine  any  other 
churches'  major  generals.  An'  drillin'?  They  can  go 
through  mo'  monkey  manoeuvers  in  five  minutes  than 
any  other  church  can  in  a  year.  It's  drillin' —  drillin' 
with  'em  all  the  time,  an'  red-tape  an'  knee  breeches,  an' 
when  they  ain't  drillin'  they're  dancin'.  They  have 
signs  an'  countersigns,  worl'  without  end,  ah-men.  An' 
I've  knowed  many  of  them  to  put  all  his  three  months' 
pay  into  a'  Sunday  uniform  for  dress  parade. 

"  Weepons  ?  They've  got  the  fines'  in  the  worl'  an* 
they  don't  think  they  can  bring  down  the  Devil  les'  they 
shoot  at  him  with  a  silver  bullet.  Everything  goes  by 
red-tape  with  'em,  an'  the  ban'-wagon  goes  in  front. 

"  But  I  jined  'em,"  went  on  the  old  man,  "  an'  I'll 
tell  you  why." 

He  paused  —  his  voice  trembled,  and  the  good  natured, 
bubbling  humor,  which  had  floated  down  the  smooth 
channel  of  his  talk,  vanished  as  bubbles  do  when  they 
float  out  into  the  deep  pool  beyond. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  lifting  his  arm,  and  showing  the 
coat  of  the  Captain  of  Artillery  — "  this  is  what  made 
me  jine  'em.  This  is  the  coat  of  Cap'n  Tom,  that  saved 
my  life  at  the  risk  of  his  own  an'  that  was  struck  down 
at  Franklin;  an'  no  common  man  of  clay,  as  I  be,  ever 
befo'  had  so  God-like  a  man  of  marble  to  pattern  after. 
I  saw  him  in  the  thick  of  the  fight  with  his  guns  parked 
an'  double-shotted,  stop  our  victorious  rush  almos'  up 
to  the  river  bank  an'  saved  Grant's  army  from  defeat 


218         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

an'  capture.  I  was  on  the  other  side,  an'  chief  of  scouts 
for  Albert  Sidney  Johnston,  but  I  see  him  now  in  his 
blue  Yankee  coat,  fightin'  his  guns  like  the  hero  that 
he  was.  I  was  foolish  an'  rushed  in.  I  was  captured 
an'  in  a  prison  pen,  I  drawed  the  black  ball  with  'leven 
others  that  was  sentenced  to  be  shot.  It  was  Cap'n  Tom 
who  came  to  me  in  the  early  dawn  of  the  day  of  the 
execution  an'  said :  '  They  shall  not  shoot  you,  Bishop 
—  put  on  my  blue  coat  an'  go  through  the  lines.  I  owe 
much  to  my  country  —  I  am  giving  it  all. 

"  'I  owe  something  to  you.  They  shall  not  shoot 
you  like  a  dog.  I  will  tell  my  colonel  what  I  have  done 
to-morrow.  If  they  think  it  is  treason  they  may  shoot 
me  instead.  I  have  nothing  to  live  for  —  you,  all.  Go.' 

"  I  have  never  seed  him  sence. 

"  We  are  mortals  and  must  think  as  mortals.  If  we 
conceive  of  God,  we  can  conceive  of  Him  only  as  in 
human  form.  An'  I  love  to  think  that  the  blessed  an' 
brave  an'  sweet  Christ  looked  like  Cap'n  Tom  looked 
in  the  early  dawn  of  that  morning  when  he  come  an' 
offered  himself, —  captain  that  he  was  —  to  be  shot,  if 
need  be,  in  my  place  —  so  gran',  so  gentle,  so  brave, 
so  f  orgivin',  so  like  a  captain  —  so  like  God-." 

His  voice  had  dropped  lower  and  lower  still.  It  died 
away  in  a  sobbing  murmur,  as  a  deep  stream  purls  and 
its  echo  dies  in  a  deeper  eddy. 

"  It  was  his  church  an'  I  jined  it.  This  was  his  coat, 
an'  so,  let  us  pray." 


CHAPTER  VII 

MARGARET  ADAMS 

THERE  passed  out  of  the  church,  after  the  service, 
a  woman  leading  a  boy  of  twelve. 

He  was  a  handsome  lad  with  a  proud  and  in 
dependent  way  about  him.  He  carried  his  head  up  and 
there  was  that  calmness  that  showed  good  blood.  There 
was  even  a  haughtiness  which  was  pathetic,  knowing  as 
the  village  did  the  story  of  his  life. 

The  woman  herself  was  of  middle  age,  with  neat,  well- 
fitting  clothes,  which,  in  the  smallest  arrangement  of 
pattern  and  make-up,  bespoke  a  natural  refinement. 

Her's  was  a  sweet  face,  with  dark  eyes,  and  in  their 
depths  lay  the  shadow  of  resignation. 

Throughout  the  sermon  she  had  not  taken  her  eyes 
off  the  old  man  in  the  pulpit,  and  so  interested  was  she, 
and  so  earnestly  did  she  drink  in  all  he  said,  that  any 
one  noticing  could  tell  that,  to  her,  the  plain  old  man 
in  the  pulpit  was  more  than  a  pastor. 

She  sat  off  by  herself.  Not  one  of  them  in  all  Cotton- 
town  would  come  near  her. 

"  Our  virtue  is  all  we  po'  fo'ks  has  got  —  if  we  lose 
that  we  ain't  got  nothin'  lef,"  Mrs.  Banks  of  grass- 
widow  fame  had  once  said,  and  saying  it  had  expressed 
Cottontown's  opinion. 

Mrs.    Banks   was   very    severe   when    the   question    of 

219 


220         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

woman's  purity  was  up.  She  was  the  fastest  woman  at 
the  loom  in  all  Cottontown.  She  was  quick,  with  a 
bright,  deep-seeing  eye.  She  had  been  pretty  —  but 
now  at  forty-five  she  was  angular  and  coarse-looking, 
with  a  sharp  tongue. 

The  Bishop  had  smiled  when  he  heard  her  say  it,  and 
then  he  looked  at  Margaret  Adams  sitting  in  the  cor 
ner  with  her  boy.  In  saying  it,  Mrs.  Banks  had  ele 
vated  her  nose  as  she  looked  in  the  direction  where  sat 
the  Magdalene. 

The  old  man  smiled,  because  he  of  all  others  knew 
the  past  history  of  Mrs.  Banks,  the  mistress  of  the 
loom. 

He  replied  quietly:  "Well,  I  dun'no  —  the  best 
thing  that  can  be  said  of  any  of  us  in  general  is,  that 
up  to  date,  it  ain't  recorded  that  the  Almighty  has  ap- 
pinted  any  one  of  us,  on  account  of  our  supreme  purity, 
to  act  as  chief  stoner  of  the  Universe.  Mighty  few  of 
us,  even,  has  any  license  to  throw  pebbles." 

Of  all  his  congregation  there  was  no  more  devoted 
member  than  Margaret  Adams  — "  an'  as  far  as  I  kno'," 
the  old  man  had  often  said,  "  if  there  is  an  angel  on 
earth,  it  is  that  same  little  woman." 

When  she  came  into  church  that  day,  the  old  man 
noticed  that  even  the  little  Hillites  drew  away  from  her. 
Often  they  would  point  at  the  little  boy  by  her  side  and 
make  faces  at  him.  To-day  they  had  carried  it  too 
far  when  one  of  them,  just  out  in  the  church  yard, 
pushed  him  rudely  as  he  walked  proudly  by  the  side  of 
his  mother,  looking  straight  before  him,  in  his  military 
way,  and  not  so  much  as  giving  them  a  glance. 


MARGARET  ADAMS 

"  Wood's-colt,"  sneered  the  boy  in  his  ear,  as  he 
pushed  him. 

«  NO  —  thoroughbred  " —  came  back,  and  with  it  a 
blow  which  sent  the  intruder  backward  on  the  grass. 

Several  old  men  nodded  at  him  approvingly  as  he 
walked  calmly  on  by  the  side  of  his  mother. 

"  Jimmie  —  Jimmie !  "  was  all  she  said  as  she  slipped 
into  the  church. 

"  I  guess  you  must  be  a  new-comer,"  remarked  Archie 
B.  indifferently  to  the  boy  who  was  wiping  the  blood 
from  his  face  as  he  arose  from  the  ground  and  looked 
sillily  around.  "  That  boy  Jim  Adams  is  my  pardner 
an'  I  could  er  tole  you  what  you'd  git  by  meddlin'  with 
him.  He's  gone  in  with  his  mother  now,  but  him  an' 
me  —  we're  in  alliance  —  we  fights  for  each  other.  Feel 
like  you  got  enough?" — and  Archie  B.  got  up  closer 
and  made  motions  as  if  to  shed  his  coat. 

The  other  boy  grinned  good  naturedly  and  walked  off. 

To-day,  just  outside  of  the  church  Ben  Butler  had 
been  hitched  up  and  the  Bishop  sat  in  the  old  buggy. 

Bud  Billings  stood  by  holding  the  bit,  stroking  the 
old  horse's  neck  and  every  now  and  then  striking  a  fierce 
attitude,  saying  "  Whoa  —  whoa  —  suh !  " 

As  usual,  Ben  Butler  was  asleep. 

"  Turn  him  loose,  Bud,"  said  the  old  man  humoring 
the  slubber  — "  I've  got  the  reins  an'  he  can't  run  away 
now.  I  can't  take  you  home  to-day  «*-  I'm  gwinter  take 
Margaret,  an'  you  an'  Jimmie  can  come  along  together." 

No  other  man  could  have  taken  Margaret  Adams  home 
and  had  any  standing  left,  in  Cottontown. 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

And  soon  they  were  jogging  along  down  the  moun 
tain  side,  toward  the  cabin  where  the  woman  lived  and 
supported  herself  and  boy  by  her  needle. 

To-day  Margaret  was  agitated  and  excited  —  more 
than  the  Bishop  had  ever  known  her  to  be.  He  knew  the 
reason,  for  clean-shaved  and  neatly  dressed,  Jack  Brack 
en  passed  her  on  the  road  to  church  that  morning,  and 
as  they  rode  along  the  Bishop  told  her  it  was  indeed 
Jack  whom  she  had  seen,  "  an'  he  loves  you  yet,  Mar 
garet,"  he  said. 

She  turned  pink  under  her  bonnet.  How  pretty  and 
fresh  she  looked  —  thought  the  Bishop  —  and  what 
purity  in  a  face  to  have  such  a  name. 

"  It  was  Jack,  then,"  she  said  simply  — "  tell  me  about 
him,  please." 

"  By  the  grace  of  God  he  has  reformed,"  said  the  old 
man  — "  and  —  Margaret  —  he  loves  you  yet,  as  I  sed. 
He  is  going  under  the  name  of  Jack  Smith,  the  black 
smith  here,  an'  he'll  lead  another  life  —  but  he  loves  you 
yet,"  he  whispered  again. 

Then  he  told  her  what  had  happened,  knowing  that 
Jack's  secret  would  be  safe  with  her. 

When  he  told  her  how  they  had  buried  little  Jack,  and 
of  the  father's  admission  that  his  determination  to  lead 
the  life  of  an  outlaw  had  come  when  he  found  that  she 
had  been  untrue  to  him,  she  was  shaken  with  grief. 
She  could  only  sit  and  weep.  Not  even  at  the  gate, 
when  the  old  man  left  her,  did  she  say  anything. 

Within,  she  stopped  before  a  picture  which  hung  over 
the  mantle-piece  and  looked  at  it,  through  eyes  that 


MARGARET  ADAMS 

filled  again  and  again    with  tears.     It  was  the  picture  of 
a  pretty  mountain  girl  with  dark  eyes  and  sensual  lip. 
Margaret  knelt  before  it  and  wept 

The  boy  had  come  and  stood  moodily  at  the  front  gate. 
The  hot  and  resentful  blood  still  tinged  in  his  cheek. 
He  looked  at  his  knuckles  —  they  were  cut  and  swollen 
where  he  had  struck  the  boy  who  had  jeered  him.  It 
hurt  him,  but  he  only  smiled  grimly. 

Never  before  had  any  one  called  him  a  wood's-colt. 
He  had  never  heard  the  word  before,  but  he  knew  what  it 
meant.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  hated  his 
mother.  He  heard  her  weeping  in  the  little  room  they 
called  home.  He  merely  shut  his  lips  tightly  and,  in 
spite  of  the  stoicism  that  was  his  by  nature,  the  tears 
swelled  up  in  his  eyes. 

They  were  hot  tears  and  he  could  not  shake  them  off. 
For  the  first  time  the  wonder  and  the  mystery  of  it  all 
came  over  him.  For  the  first  time  he  felt  that  he  was 
not  as  other  boys, —  that  there  was  a  meaning  in  this 
lonely  cabin  and  the  shunned  woman  he  called  mother, 
and  the  glances,  some  of  pity,  some  of  contempt,  which 
he  had  met  all  of  his  life. 

As  he  stood  thinking  this,  Richard  Travis  rode  slowly 
down  the  main  road  leading  from  the  town  to  The  Gaffs. 
And  this  went  through  the  boy  successively  —  not  in 
words,  scarcely  —  but  in  feelings : 

"  What  a  beautiful  horse  he  is  riding  —  it  thrills  me 
to  see  it  —  I  love  it  naturally  —  oh,  but  to  own  one ! 

''  What  a  handsome  man  he  is  —  and  how  like  a  gen 
tleman  he  looks!  I  like  the  way  he  sits  his  horse.  I 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

like  that  way  he  has  of  not  noticing  people.  He  has 
got  the  same  way  about  him  I  have  got  —  that  I've 
always  had  —  that  I  love  —  a  way  that  shows  me  I'm 
not  afraid,  and  that  I  have  got  nerve  and  bravery. 

"He  sits  that  horse  just  as  I  would  sit  him  —  his 
head  —  his  face  —  the  way  that  foot  slopes  to  the  stir 
rup  —  why  that's  me  — 

He  stopped  —  he  turned  pale  —  he  trembled  with 
pride  and  rage.  Then  he  turned  and  walked  into  the 
room  where  Margaret  Adams  sat.  She  held  out  her 
arms  to  him  pleadingly. 

But  he  did  not  notice  her,  and  never  before  had  she 
seen  such  a  look  on  his  face  as  he  said  calmly : 

"  Mother,  if  you  will  come  to  the  door  I  will  show 
you  my  father." 

Margaret  Adams  had  already  seen.  She  turned  white 
with  a  hidden  shame  as  she  said: 

"  Jimmie  —  Jimmie  —  who  —  who  — ?  " 

"No   one,"    he    shouted    fiercely — "by    God  "— she 
had  never  before  heard  him  swear  — "  I  tell  you  no  one 
—  on  my  honor  as  a  Travis  —  no  one !     It  has  come  to 
me  of  itself  —  I  know  it  —  I  feel  it." 

He  was  too  excited  to  talk.  He  walked  up  and  down 
the  little  room,  his  proud  head  lifted  and  his  eyes  ablaze. 

"  I  know  now  why  I  love  honesty,  why  I  despise  those 
common  things  beneath  me  —  why  I  am  not  afraid  — 
why  I  struck  that  boy  as  I  did  this  morning  —  why  - 
he  walked  into  the  little  shed  room  that  was  his  own  and 
came  back  with  a  long  single  barrel  pistol  in  his  hand 
and  fondled  it  lovingly  — "  why  all  my  life  I  have 
been  able  to  shoot  this  as  I  have  — " 


MARGARET  ADAMS  225 

He  field  in  his  hand  a  long,  single  barrel,  rifle-bored 
duelling  pistol  —  of  the  type  used  by  gentlemen  at  the 
beginning  of  the  century.  Where  he  had  got  it  she  did 
not  know,  but  always  it  had  been  his  plaything. 

"  O  Jimmie  —  you  would  not  —  exclaimed  the 
woman  rising  and  reaching  for  it. 

"  Tush  — "  he  said  bitterly  — "  tush  —  that's  the  way 
Richard  Travis  talks,  ain't  it?  Does  not  my  very  voice 
sound  like  his  ?  No  —  but  I  expect  you  now,  mother  " 

—  he  said  it  softly  — "  tell  me  —  tell  me  all  about  it." 
For  a  moment  Margaret  Adams  was  staggered.     She 

only  shook  her  head. 

He  looked  at  her  cynically  —  then  bitterly.  A  dan 
gerous  flash  leaped  into  his  eyes. 

"  Then,  by  God,"  he  cried  fiercely,  "  this  moment  will 
I  walk  over  to  his  house  with  this  pistol  in  my  hand  and 
I  will  ask  him.  If  he  fails  to  tell  me  —  damn  him  —  I 
dare  him  — 

She  jumped  up  and  seized  him  in  her  arms. 

"  Promise  me  that  if  I  tell  you  all  —  all,  Jimmy,  when 
you  are  fifteen  —  promise  me  —  will  you  be  patient  now 

—  with    poor   mother,    who  loves   you   so?"     And   she 
kissed  him  fondly  again  and  again. 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  and  saw  all  her  suffering 
there. 

The  bitterness  went  out  of  his. 

"  I'll  promise,  mother,"  he  said  simply,  and  walked 
back  into  his  little  room. 


15 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HARD-SHELL   SUNDAY 

44fTlHIS  bein'  Hard-shell  Sunday,"  said  the  Bishop 

that    afternoon    when    his    congregation    met, 

"  cattle  of  that  faith  will  come  up  to  the  front 

rack  for  fodder.      Elder  Butts  will  he'p  me  conduct  these 

exercises." 

"  It's  been  so  long  sence  I've  been  in  a  Hard-shell 
lodge,  I  may  be  a  little  rusty  on  the  grip  an'  pass  word, 
but  I'm  a  member  in  good  standin'  if  I  am  rusty." 

There  was  some  laughing  at  this,  from  the  other  mem 
bers,  and  after  the  Hard-shells  had  come  to  the  front 
the  Bishop  caught  the  infection  and  went  on  with  a  sly 
wink  at  the  others. 

"  The  fact  is,  I've  sometimes  been  mighty  sorry  I 
jined  any  other  lodge;  for  makin'  honorable  exception, 
the  other  churches  don't  know  the  diff'r'nce  betwixt 
twenty-year-old  Lincoln  County  an'  Michigan  pine-top. 

"  The  Hard-shells  was  the  fust  church  I  jined,  as  I 
sed.  I  hadn't  sampled  none  of  the  others  "  —  he  whis 
pered  aside  — "  an'  I  didn't  know  there  was  any  better 
licker  in  the  jug.  But  the  Baptists  is  a  little  riper,  the 
Presbyterians  is  much  mellower,  an'  compared  to  all  of 
them  the  'Piscopalians  rises  to  the  excellence  of  syllabub 
an'  champagne. 

"  A  hones'  dram  tuck  now  an'  then,  prayerfully,  is 

226 


HARD-SHELL  SUNDAY 

a  good  thing  for  any  religion.  I've  knowed  many  a 
man  to  take  a  dram  jes'  in  time  to  keep  him  out  of  a 
divorce  court.  An'  I've  never  knowed  it  to  do  anybody 
no  harm  but  old  elder  Shotts  of  Clay  County.  An'  ef 
he'd  a  stuck  to  it  straight  he'd  abeen  all  right  now.  But 
one  of  these  old-time  Virginia  gentlemen  stopped  with 
him  all  night  onct,  an'  tor't  the  old  man  how  to  make 
a  mint  julip;  an'  when  I  went  down  the  next  year  to 
hold  services  his  wife  told  me  the  good  old  man  had  been 
gathered  to  his  fathers.  '  He  was  all  right '  she  'lowed, 
'  till  a  little  feller  from  Virginia  came  along  an'  tort  'im 
ter  mix  greens  in  his  licker,  an'  then  he  jes  drunk  hisself 
to  death.' 

"  There's  another  thing  I  like  about  two  of  the 
churches  I'm  in  —  the  Hard-shells  an'  the  Presbyterians 
—  an'  that  is  special  Providence.  If  I  didn't  believe 
in  special  Providence  I'd  lose  my  faith  in  God. 

"  My  father  tuck  care  of  me  when  I  was  a  babe,  an' 
we're  all  babes  in  God's  sight. 

"  The  night  befo'  the  battle  of  Shiloh,  I  preached  to 
some  of  our  po'  boys  the  last  sermon  that  many  of  'em 
ever  heard.  An'  I  told  'em  not  to  dodge  the  nex'  day, 
but  to  stan'  up  an'  'quit  themselves  like  men,  for  ever' 
shell  an'  ball  would  hit  where  God  intended  it  should 
hit. 

"  In  the  battle  nex'  day  I  was  chaplain  no  longer, 
but  chief  of  scouts,  an'  on  the  firm'  line  where  it  was 
hot  enough.  In  the  hottest  part  of  it  General  Johnston 
rid  up,  an'  when  he  saw  our  exposed  position  he  told  us 
to  hold  the  line,  but  to  lay  down  for  shelter.  A  big  tree 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

was  nigh  me  an'  I  got  behin'  it.  The  Gineral  seed  me 
an'  he  smiled  an'  sed: 

"  '  Oh,  Bishop,'  " —  his  voice  fell  to  a  proud  and  ten 
der  tone  — "  did  you  know  it  was  Gineral  Johnston  that 
fust  named  me  the  Bishop?  " 

"  '  Oh,  Bishop,'  he  said,  '  I  can  see  you  puttin'  a  tree 
betwixt  yo'se'f  an'  special  Providence.'  '  Yes,  Gineral,' 
I  sed,  '  an'  I  looks  on  it  as  a  very  special  Providence  jus' 
at  this  time.' 

"  He  laughed,  an'  -the  boys  hoorawed  an'  he  rid  off. 

"  Our  lives  an'  the  Destiny  of  our  course  is  fixed  as 
firmly  as  the  laws  that  wheel  the  planets.  Why,  I  have 
knowed  men  to  try  to  hew  out  their  own  destiny  an' 
they'd  make  it  look  like  a  gum-log  hewed  out  with  a 
broad  axe,  until  God  would  run  the  rip-saw  of  His 
purpose  into  them,  an'  square  them  out  an'  smooth  them 
over  an'  polish  them  into  pillars  for  His  Temple. 

"  What  is,  was  goin'  to  be ;  an'  the  things  that's  got 
to  come  to  us  has  already  happened  in  God's  mind. 

"  I've  knowed  poor  an'  unpretentious,  God-  fearin' 
men  an'  women  to  put  out  their  hands  to  build  shanties 
for  their  humble  lives,  an'  God  would  turn  them  into 
castles  of  character  an'  temples  of  truth  for  all  time. 

"  Elder  Butts  will  lead  in  prayer." 

It  was  a  long  prayer  and  was  proceeding  smoothly, 
until,  in  its  midst,  from  the  front  row,  Archie  B.'s 
head  bobbed  cautiously  up.  Keeping  one  eye  on  his 
father,  the  praying  Elder,  he  went  through  a  pantomime 
for  the  benefit  of  the  young  Hillites  around  him,  who, 
like  himself,  had  had  enough  of  prayer.  Before  coming 
to  the  meeting  he  had  cut  from  a  black  sheep's  skin  a 


HARD-SHELL  SUNDAY  229 

gorgeous  set  of  whiskers  and  a  huge  mustache.  These 
now  adorned  his  face. 

There  was  a  convulsive  snicker  among  the  young  Hill- 
ites  behind  him.  The  Elder  opened  one  eye  to  see  what 
it  meant.  They  were  natural  children,  whose  childhood 
had  not  been  dwarfed  in  a  cotton  mill,  and  it  was  ex 
ceedingly  funny  to  them. 

But  the  young  Cottontowners  laughed  not.  They 
looked  on  in  stoical  wonder  at  the  presumption  of  the 
young  Hillites  who  dared  to  do  such  a  deed. 

Humor  had  never  been  known  to  them.  There  is  no 
humor  in  the  all-day  buzz  of  the  cotton  factory;  and 
fun  and  the  fight  of  life  for  daily  bread  do  not  sleep 
in  the  same  crib. 

The  Hillites  tittered  and  giggled. 

"Maw,"  whispered  Miss  Butts,  "  look  at  Archie  B." 

Mrs.  Butts  hastily  reached  over  the  bench  and  yanked 
Archie  B.  down.  His  whiskers  were  confiscated  and  in 
a  moment  he  was  on  his  knees  and  deeply  devotional, 
while  the  young  Hillites  nudged  each  other,  and  gig 
gled  and  the  young  Cottontowners  stared  and  won 
dered,  and  looked  to  see  when  Archie  B.  would  be  hung 
up  by  the  thumbs. 

The  Bishop  was  reading  the  afternoon  chapter  when 
the  animal  in  Archie  B.  broke  out  in  another  spot.  The 
chapter  was  where  Zacharias  climbed  into  a  sycamore 
tree  to  see  his  passing  Lord.  There  was  a  rattling  of 
the  stove  pipe  in  one  corner. 

"  Maw,"  whispered  Miss  Butts,  "  Jes'  look  at  Archie 
B. —  he's  climbin'  the  stove  pipe  like  Zacharias  did  the 
sycamo'." 


230         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Horror  again  swept  over  Cottontown,  while  the  Hill- 
ites  cackled  aloud.  The  Elder  settled  it  by  calmly  lay 
ing  aside  his  spectacles  and  starting  down  the  pulpit 
steps.  But  Archie  B.  guessed  his  purpose  and  before 
he  had  reached  the  last  step  he  was  sitting  demurely 
by  the  side  of  his  pious  brother,  intently  engaged  in 
reading  the  New  Testament. 

Without  his  glasses,  the  Elder  never  knew  one  twin 
from  the  other,  but  presuming  that  the  studious  one 
was  Ozzie  B.,  he  seized  the  other  by  the  ear,  pulled  him 
to  the  open  window  and  pitched  him  out  on  the  grass. 

It  was  Ozzie  B.  of  course,  and  Archie  B.  turned  cau 
tiously  around  to  the  Hillites  behind,  after  the  Elder  had 
gone  back  to  his  chapter,  and  whispered: 

"  Venture  peewee  under  the  bridge  —  bam  —  bam  — 
bam." 

Throughout  the  sermon  Archie  B.  kept  the  young 
Hillites  in  a  paroxysm  of  smirks. 

Elder  Butts'  legs  were  brackets,  or  more  properly 
parentheses,  and  as  he  preached  and  thundered  and  ges 
ticulated  and  whined  and  sang  his  sermon,  he  forgot  all 
earthly  things. 

Knowing  this,  Archie  B.  would  crawl  up  behind  his 
father  and  thrusting  his  head  in  between  his  legs,  where 
the  brackets  were  most  pronounced,  would  emphasize  all 
that  was  said  with  wry  grimaces  and  gestures. 

No  language  can  fittingly  describe  the  way  Elder 
Butts  delivered  his  discourse.  The  sentences  were 
whined,  howled  or  sung,  ending  always  in  the  vocal  ex 
pletive  — "  ah  —  ah." 


HARD-SHELL  SUNDAY 

When  the  elder  had  finished  and  sat  down,  Archie  B. 
was  sitting  demurely  on  the  platform  steps. 

Then  the  latest  Scruggs  baby  was  brought  forward  to 
be  baptised.  There  were  already  ten  in  the  family. 

The  Bishop  took  the  infant  tenderly  and  said:  "  Sis 
ter  Scruggs,  which  church  shall  I  put  him  into?  " 

"  Tiscopal,"  whispered  the  good  Mrs.  Scruggs. 

The  Bishop  looked  the  red-headed  young  candidate 
over  solemnly.  There  was  a  howl  of  protest  from  the 
lusty  Scruggs. 

"  He's  a  Cam'elite,"  said  the  Bishop  dryly  — "  ready 
to  dispute  a'ready " —  here  the  young  Scruggs  sent 
out  a  kick  which  caught  the  Bishop  in  the  mouth. 

"  With  Baptis'  propensities,"  added  the  Bishop. 
"  Fetch  the  baptismal  fount." 

"  Please,  pap,"  said  little  Appamattox  Watts  from 
the  front  bench,  "  but  Archie  B.  has  drunk  up  all  the 
baptismal  water  endurin'  the  first  prayer." 

"  I  had  to,"  spoke  up  Archie  B.,  from,  the  platform 
steps  — "  I  et  dried  mackerel  for  breakfas'." 

"  We'll  postpone  the  baptism'  till  nex'  Sunday,"  said 
the  Bishop. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    RETURN 

IT  was  Sunday  and  Jack  Bracken  had  been  out  all  the 
afternoon,  hunting  for  Cap'n  Tom  —  as  he  had 
been  in  the  morning,  when  not  at  church.  Hitch 
ing  up  the  old  horse,  the  Bishop  started  out  to  hunt  also. 

He  did  not  go  far  on  the  road  toward  Westmoreland, 
for  as  Ben  Butler  plodded  sleepily  along,  he  almost  ran 
over  a  crowd  of  boys  in  the  public  road,  teasing  what 
they  took  to  be  a  tramp,  because  of  his  unkempt  beard, 
his  tattered  clothes,  and  his  old  army  cap. 

They  had  angered  the  man  and  with  many  gestures  he 
was  endeavoring  to  expostulate  with  his  tormentors,  at 
the  same  time  attempting  imprecations  which  could  not 
be  uttered  and  ended  in  a  low  pitiful  sound.  He  shook 
his  fist  at  them  —  he  made  violent  gestures,  but  from  his 
mouth  came  only  a  guttural  sound  which  had  no  mean 
ing- 

At  a  word  from  the  Bishop  his  tormentors  vanished, 
and  when  he  pulled  up  before  the  uncouth  figure  he  found 
him  to  be  a  man  not  yet  in  his  prime,  with  an  open  face, 
now  blank  and  expressionless,  overgrown  with  a  black, 
tangled,  and  untrimmed  beard. 

He  was  evidently  a  demented  tramp. 

But  at  a  second  look  the  Bishop  started.  It  was  the 
man's  eyes  which  startled  him.  There  was  in  them 

232 


THE  RETURN  233 

something   so   familiar   and   yet   so   unknown   that  the 
Bishop  had  to  study  a  while  before  he  could  remember. 

Then  there  crept  into  his  face  a  wave  of  pitying  sor 
row  as  he  said  to  himself: 

"  Cap'n  Tom  —  Cap'n  Tom's  eyes." 

And  from  that  moment  the  homeless  and  demented 
tramp  had  a  warm  place  in  the  old  man's  heart. 

The  Bishop  watched  him  closely.  His  tattered  cap 
had  fallen  off,  showing  a  shock  of  heavy,  uncut  hair, 
streaked  prematurely  with  gray. 

"  What  yo'  name?  "  asked  the  Bishop  kindly. 

The  man,  flushed  and  angered,  still  gesticulated  and 
muttered  to  himself.  But  at  the  sound  of  the  Bishop's 
voice,  for  a  moment  there  flashed  into  his  eyes  almost 
the  saneness  of  returned  reason.  His  anger  vanished. 
A  kindly  smile  spread  over  his  face.  He  came  toward 
the  Bishop  pleadingly  —  holding  out  both  hands  and 
striving  to  speak.  Climbing  into  the  buggy,  he  sat  down 
by  the  old  man's  side,  quite  happy  and  satisfied  —  and 
as  a  little  child. 

"  Where  are  you  from  ?  "  asked  the  Bishop  again. 

The  man  shook  his  head.  He  pointed  to  his  head 
and  looked  meaningly  at  the  Bishop. 

"  Can't  you  tell  me  where  you're  gwine,  then  ?  " 

He  looked  at  the  Bishop  inquisitively,  and  for  a  mo 
ment,  only,  the   same  look  —  almost  of  intelligence  — 
shone  in  his  eyes.      Slowly  and  with  much  difficulty  — 
ay,  even  as  if  he  were  spelling  it  out,  he  caid : 

"  A-1-i-c-e  "- 

The  old  man  turned  quickly.  Then  he  paled  trem 
blingly  to  his  very  forehead.  The  word  itself  —  the 


234         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

sound  of  that  voice  sent  the  blood  rushing  to  his  heart. 

"Alice?  —  and  what  does  he  mean?  An'  his  voice 
an'  his  eyes  —  Alice  —  my  God  —  it's  Cap'n  Tom !  " 

Tenderly,  calmly  he  pulled  the  cap  from  off  the 
strange  being's  head  and  felt  amid  the  unkempt  locks. 
But  his  hands  trembled  so  he  could  scarcely  control  them, 
and  the  sight  of  the  poor,  broken,  half  demented  thing 
before  him  —  so  satisfied  and  happy  that  he  had  found 
a  voice  he  knew  —  this  creature,  the  brave,  the  chival 
rous,  the  heroic  Captain  Tom !  He  could  scarcely  see 
for  the  tears  which  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

But  as  he  felt,  in  the  depth  of  his  shock  of  hair,  his 
finger  slipped  into  an  ugly  scar,  sinking  into  a  cup- 
shaped  hollow  fracture  which  gleamed  in  his  hair. 

"  Cap'n  Tom,  Cap'n  Tom,"  he  whispered  — "  don't 
you  know  me  —  the  Bishop?  " 

The  man  smiled  reassuringly  and  slipped  his  hand,  as 
a  child  might,  into  that  of  the  old  man. 

"  A-1-i-c-e  "  -  he  slowly  and  stutteringly  pronounced 
again,  as  he  pointed  down  the  road  toward  Westmore 
land. 

"  My  God,"  said  the  Bishop  as  he  wiped  away  the  tears 
on  the  back  of  his  hand  — "  my  God,  but  that  blow  has 
spiled  God's  noblest  gentleman."  Then  there  rushed 
over  him  a  wrave  of  self-reproach  as  he  raised  his  head 
heavenward  and  said : 

"  Almighty  Father,  forgive  me!  Only  this  mornmg 
I  doubted  You;  and  now,  now,  You  have  sent  me  po9 
Cap'n  Tom!  " 

"  You'll  go  home  with  me,  Cap'n  Tom !  "  he  added 
cheerily. 


THE  RETURN  235 

The  man  smiled  and  nodded. 

"  A-1-i-c-e,"  again  he  repeated. 

There  was  the  sound  of  some  one  riding,  and  as  the 
Bishop  turned  Ben  Butler  around  Alice  Westmore  rode 
up,  sitting  her  saddle  mare  with  that  natural  grace 
which  comes  only  when  the  horse  and  rider  have  been 
friends  long  enough  to  become  as  one.  Richard  Travis 
rode  with  her. 

The  Bishop  paled  again :  "  My  God,"  he  muttered 
— "  but  she  mustn't  know  this  is  Cap'n  Tom  !  I'd  ruther 
she'd  think  he's  dead  —  to  remember  him  only  as  she 
knowed  him  last." 

The  man's  eyes  were  riveted  on  her  —  they  seemed  to 
devour  her  as  she  rode  up,  a  picture  of  grace  and  beauty, 
sitting  her  cantering  mare  with  the  ease  of  long  years 
of  riding.  She  smiled  and  nodded  brightly  at  the 
Bishop,  as  she  cantered  past,  but  scarcely  glanced  at  the 
man  beside  him. 

Travis  followed  at  a  brisk  gait: 

"  Hello,  Bishop,"  he  said  banteringly  — "  got  a  new 
boarder  to-day  ?  " 

He  glanced  at  the  man  as  he  spoke,  and  then  galloped 
on  without  turning  his  head. 

"  Alice !  —  Alice !  " —  whispered  the  man,  holding  out 
his  hands  pleadingly,  in  the  way  he  had  held  them  when 
he  first  saw  the  Bishop.  "  Alice !  " —  but  she  disap 
peared  behind  a  turn  in  the  road.  She  had  not  noticed 
him. 

The  Bishop  was  relieved. 

"  We'll  go  home,  Cap'n  Tom  —  you'll  want  for  noth- 
in'  whilst  I  live.  An'  who  knows  —  ay,  Cap'n  Tom,  who 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

knows  but  maybe  God  has  sent  you  here  to-day  to  begin 
the  unraveling  of  the  only  injustice  I've  ever  knowed 
Him  to  let  go  so  long.  It  'ud  be  so  easy  for  Him  — 
He's  done  bigger  things  than  jes'  to  straighten  out  lit 
tle  tangles  like  that.  Cap'n  Tom !  Cap'n  Tom !  "  he 
said  excitedly  — "  God'll  do  it  —  God'll  do  it  —  for  He 
is  just!" 

As  he  turned  to  go  a  negro  came  up  hurriedly :  "  I 
was  fetchin'  him  to  you,  Marse  Hilliard  —  been  lookin' 
for  yo'  home  all  day.  I  had  gone  to  the  spring  for 
water  an'  'lowed  I'd  be  back  in  a  minute." 

"  Why,  it's  Eph,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  Come  on  to  my 
home,  Eph,  we'll  take  keer  of  Cap'n  Tom." 

It  was  Sunday  night.  They  had-  eaten  their  supper, 
and  the  old  man  was  taking  his  smoke  before  going  to 
bed.  Shiloh,  as  usual,  had  climbed  up  into  his  lap  and 
lay  looking  at  the  distant  line  of  trees  that  girdled  the 
mountain  side.  There  was  a  flush  on  her  cheeks  and 
a  brightness  in  her  eyes  which  the  old  man  had  noticed 
for  several  weeks. 

Shiloh  was  his  pet  —  his  baby.  All  the  affection  of 
his  strong  nature  found  its  outlet  in  this  little  soul  — 
this  motherless  little  waif,  who  likewise  found  in  the  old 
man  that  rare  comradeship  of  extremes  —  the  inex 
plicable  law  of  the  physical  world  which  brings  the  snow- 
flower  in  winter.  The  one  real  serious  quarrel  the 
old  man  had  had  with  his  stubborn  and  ignorant  old  wife 
had  been  when  Shiloh  was  sent  to  the  factory.  But  it 
was  always  starvation  times  with  them;  and  when 
aroused,  the  temper  and  tongue  of  Mrs.  Watts  was  more 
than  the  peaceful  old  man  could  stand  up  against.  And 


THE  RETURN  237 

as  there  were  a  dozen  other  tots  of  her  age  in  the  fac 
tory,  he  had  been  forced  to  acquiesce. 

Long  after  all  others  had  retired  —  long  after  the 
evening  star  had  arisen,  and  now,  high  overhead,  looked 
down  through  the  chinks  in  the  roof  of  the  cabin  on  the 
mountain  side,  saying  it  was  midnight  and  past,  the  pa 
tient  old  man  sat  with  Shiloh  on  his  lap,  watching  her 
quick,  restless  breathing,  and  fearing  to  put  her  to  bed, 
lest  he  might  awaken  her. 

He  put  her  in  bed  at  last  and  then  slipped  into  Cap 
tain  Tom's  cabin  before  he  himself  lay  down. 

To  his  surprise  he  was  up  and  reading  an  old  dic 
tionary  —  studying  and  puzzling  over  the  words.  It 
was  the  only  book  except  the  Bible  the  Bishop  had  in 
his  cabin,  and  this  book  proved  to  be  Captain  Tom's 
solace. 

After  that,  day  after  day,  he  would  sit  out  under  the 
oak  tree  by  his  cabin  intently  reading  the  dictionary. 

Eph,  his  body  servant,  slept  on  the  floor  by  his  side, 
and  Jack  Bracken  sat  near  him  like  a  sturdy  mastiff 
guarding  a  child.  Sympathy,  pity  —  were  written  in 
the  outlaw's  face,  as  he  looked  at  the  once  splendid  man 
hood  shorn  of  its  strength,  and  from  that  day  Jack 
Bracken  showered  on  Captain  Tom  all  the  affection  of 
his  generous  soul  —  all  that  would  have  gone  to  little 
Jack. 

"  For  he's  but  a  child  —  the  same  as  little  Jack  was," 
he  would  say. 

"  Put  up  yo'  novel,  Cap'n  Tom,"  said  the  old  man 
cheerily,  when  he  went  in,  "  an'  let's  have  prayers." 

The  sound  of  the  old  man's  voice  was  soothing  to 


238        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Captain  Tom.  Quickly  the  book  was  closed  and  down 
on  their  knees  went  the  three  men. 

It  was  a  queer  trio  —  the  three  kneeling  in  prayer. 

"  Almighty  God,"  prayed  the  old  man  — "  me  an' 
Cap'n  Tom  an'  Jack  Bracken  here,  we  thank  You  for 
bein'  so  much  kinder  to  us  than  we  deserves.  One  of 
us,  lost  to  his  friends,  is  brought  back  home ;  one  of  us, 
lost  in  wickedness  but  yestiddy,  is  redeemed  to-day ;  an' 
me  that  doubted  You  only  yestiddy,  to  me  You  have 
fotcht  Cap'n  Tom  back,  a  reproach  for  my  doubts  an' 
my  disbelief,  lame  in  his  head,  it  is  true,  but  You've 
fotcht  him  back  where  I  can  keer  for  him  an'  nuss  him. 
An'  I  hope  You'll  see  fit,  Almighty  God,  You  who  made 
the  worl'  an'  holds  it  in  the  hollow  of  Yo'  ban',  You,  who 
raised  up  the  dead  Christ,  to  give  po'  Cap'n  Tom  back 
his  reason,  that  he  may  fulfill  the  things  in  life  ordained 
by  You  that  he  should  fulfill  since  the  beginning  of 
things. 

"  An'  hold  Jack  Bracken  to  the  mark,  Almighty  God, 
—  let  him  toe  the  line  an'  shoot,  hereafter,  only  for 
good.  An'  guide  me,  for  I  need  it  —  me  that  in  spite 
of  all  You've  done  for  me,  doubted  You  but  yestiddy. 
Amen." 

It  was  a  simple,  homely  prayer,  but  it  comforted  even 
Captain  Tom,  and  when  Jack  Bracken  put  him  to  bed 
that  night,  even  the  outlaw  felt  that  the  morning  of  a 
new  era  would  awaken  them. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   SWAN-SONG   OF   THE   CREPE-MYRTLE 

IT  was  twilight  when  Mrs.  Westmore  heard  the  clatter 
of  horses'  hoofs  up  the  gravelled  road-way,  and  two 
riders  cantered  up. 

Richard  Travis  sat  his  saddle  horse  in  the  slightly 
stooping  way  of  the  old  fox-hunter  —  not  the  most 
graceful  seat,  but  the  most  natural  and  comfortable  for 
hard  riding.  Alice  galloped  ahead  —  her  fine  square 
shoulders  and  delicate  but  graceful  bust  silhouetted 
against  the  western  sky  in  the  fading  light. 

Mrs.  Westmore  sat  on  the  veranda  and  watched  them 
canter  up.  She  thought  how  handsome  they  were,  and 
how  w£ll  they  would  look  always  together. 

Alice  sprang  lightly  from  her  mare  at  the  front  steps. 

Ct  Did  you  think  we  were  never  coming  back?  Rich 
ard's  new  mare  rides  so  delightfully  that  we  rode  far 
ther  than  we  intended.  Oh,  but  she  canters  beauti 
fully  ! " 

She  sat  on  the  arm  of  her  mother's  chair,  and  bent 
over  and  kissed  her  cheek.  The  mother  looked  up  to 
see  her  finely  turned  profile  outlined  in  a  pale  pink  flush 
of  western  sky  which  glowed  behind  her.  Her  cheeks 
were  of  the  same  tinge  as  the  sky.  They  glowed  with; 
the  flush  of  the  gallop,  and  her  eyes  were  bright  witK 
the  happiness  of  it.  She  sat  telling  of  the  new  mare's 

239 


240         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

wonderfully  correct  saddle  gaits,  flipping  her  ungloved 
hand  with  the  gauntlet  she  had  just  pulled  off. 

Travis  turned  the  horses  over  to  Jim  and  came  up. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Cousin  Alethea,"  he  said,  as  she 
arose  and  advanced  gracefully  to  meet  him  — "  no,  no  — 
don't  rise,"  he  added  in  his  half  jolly,  half  commanding 
way.  "  You've  met  me  before  and  I'm  not  such  a  big 
man  as  I  seem."  He  laughed :  *'  Do  you  remember 
Giant  Jim,  the  big  negro  Grandfather  used  to  have  to 
oversee  his  hands  on  the  lower  place?  Jim,  you  know, 
in  consideration  of  his  elevation,  was  granted  several 
privileges  not  allowed  the  others.  Among  them  was  the 
privilege  of  getting  drunk  every  Saturday  night.  Then 
it  was  he  would  stalk  and  brag  among  those  he  ruled 
while  they  looked  at  him  in  awe  and  reverence.  But  he 
had  the  touch  of  the  philosopher  in  him  and  would  finally 
say :  *  Come,  touch  me,  boys ;  come,  look  at  me ;  come, 
feel  me  — •  I'm  nothin'  but  a  common  man,  although  I 
appear  so  big.'  " 

Mrs.  Westmore  laughed  in  her  mechanical  way,  but 
all  the  while  she  was  looking  at  Alice,  who  was  watching 
the  mare  as  she  was  led  off. 

Travis  caught  her  eye  and  winked  mischievously  as 
he  added :  "  Now,  Cousin  Alethea,  you  must  promise 
me  to  make  Alice  ride  her  whenever  she  needs  a  tonic  — 
every  day,  if  necessary.  I  have  bought  her  for  Alice, 
and  she  must  get  the  benefit  of  her  before  it  grows  too 
cold." 

He  turned  to  Alice  Westmore :  "  You  have  only  to 
tell  me  which  days  —  if  I  am  too  busy  to  go  with  you  — 
Jim  will  bring  her  over." 


SWAN-SONG  OF  THE  CREPE-MYRTLE 

She  smiled:  "You  are  too  kind,  Richard,  always 
thinking  of  my  pleasure.  A  ride  like  this  once  a  vreek 
is  tonic  enough." 

She  went  into  the  house  to  change  her  habit.  Her 
brother  Clay,  who  had  been  sitting  on  the  far  end  ot 
the  porch  unobserved,  arose  and,  without  noticing  Travis 
as  he  passed,  walked  into  the  house. 

"  I  cannot  imagine,"  said  Mrs.  Westmore  apologet 
ically,  "  what  is  the  matter  with  Clay  to-day." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Travis  indifferently  enough. 

"  He  has  neglected  his  geological  specimens  all  day, 
nor  has  he  ever  been  near  his  laboratory  —  he  has  one 
room  he  calls  his  laboratory,  you  know.  To-night  he  is 
moody  and  troubled." 

Travis  said  nothing.     At  tea  Clay  was  not  there. 

When  Travis  left  it  was  still  early  and  Alice  walked 
with  him  to  the  big  gate.  The  moon  shone  dimly  and 
the  cool,  pure  light  lay  over  everything  like  the  first  mist 
of  frost  in  November.  Beyond,  in  the  field,  where  it 
struck  into  the  open  cotton  bolls,  it  turned  them  into 
December  snow-banks. 

Travis  led  his  saddle  horse,  and  as  they  walked  to  the 
gate,  the  sweet  and  scarcely  perceptible  odor  of  the  crepe- 
myrtle  floated  out  on  the  open  air. 

The  crepe-myrtle  has  a  way  of  surprising  us  now  and 
then,  and  often  after  a  wet  fall,  it  gives  us  the  swan- 
song  of  a  bloom,  ere  its  delicate  blossoms,  touched  to 
death  by  frost,  close  forever  their  scalloped  pink  eyes, 
on  the  rare  summer  of  a  life  as  spiritual  as  the  sweet  soft 
gulf  winds  which  brought  it  to  life. 

Was  it  symbolic  to-night, —  the  swan-song  of  the  ro~ 

16 


£4S         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

mance  of  Alice  Westmore's  life,  begun  under  those  very 
trees  so  many  summers  ago? 

They  stopped  at  the  gate.  Richard  Travis  lit  a  cigar 
before  mounting  his  horse.  He  seemed  at  times  to-night 
restless,  yet  always  determined. 

She  had  never  seen  him  so  nearly  preoccupied  as  he 
had  been  once  or  twice  to-night. 

"  Do  you  not  think?  "  he  asked,  after  a  while  as  they 
stood  by  the  gate,  "  that  I  should  have  a  sweet  answer 
soon?" 

Her  eyes  fell.  The  death  song  of  the  crepe-myrtle, 
aroused  by  a  south  wind  suddenly  awrakened,  smote  her 
painfully. 

"  You  know  —  you  know  how  it  is,  Richard  " — 

"  How  it  was  —  Alice.  But  think  —  life  is  a  prac 
tical  —  a  serious  thing.  We  all  have  had  our  romances. 
They  are  the  heritage  of  dreaming  youth.  We  outlive 
them  —  it  is  best  that  we  should.  Our  spiritual  life  fol 
lows  the  law  of  all  other  life,  and  spiritually  we  are  not 
the  same  this  year  that  we  were  last.  Nor  will  we  be  the 

next.  It  is  always  change change  —  even  as  the  body 

changes.  Environment  has  more  to  do  with  what  we 
are,  what  we  think  and  feel  —  than  anything  else.  If 
you  will  marry  me  you  will  soon  love  me  —  it  is  the  law 
of  love  to  beget  love.  You  will  forget  all  the  lesser 
loves  in  the  great  love  of  your  life.  Do  you  not  know  it, 
feel  it,  Sweet?  " 

She  looked  at  him  surprised.  Never  before  had  he 
used  any  term  of  endearment  to  her.  There  was  a  hard, 
still  and  subtle  yet  determined  light  in  his  eyes. 

"  Richard  —  Richard  —  you  —  I  " — 


SWAN-SONG  OF  THE  CREPE-MYRTLE 

"  See,"  he  said,  taking  from  his  vest  pocket  a  mag 
nificent  ring  set  in  an  exquisite  old  setting  —  inherited 
from  his  grandmother,  and  it  had  been  her  engagement 
ring.  "  See,  Alice,  let  me  put  this  on  to-night." 

He  took  her  hand  —  it  thrilled  him  as  he  had  never 
been  thrilled  before.  This  impure  man,  who  had  made 
the  winning  of  women  a  plaything,  trembled  with  the 
fear  of  it  as  he  took  in  his  own  the  hand  so  pure  that 
not  even  his  touch  could  awaken  sensuality  in  it.  The 
odor  of  her  beautiful  hair  floated  up  to  him  as  he  bent 
over.  A  wave  of  hot  passion  swept  over  him  —  for  with 
him  love  was  passion  —  and  his  reason,  for  a  moment, 
was  swept  from  its  seat.  Then  almost  beside  himself 
for  love  of  this  woman,  so  different  from  any  he  had  ever 
known,  he  opened  his  arms  to  fold  her  in  one  over 
powering,  conquering  embrace. 

It  was  but  a  second  and  more  a  habit  than  thought  — 
he  who  had  never  before  hesitated  to  do  it. 

She  stepped  back  and  the  hot  blood  mounted  to  her 
cheek.  Her  eyes  shone  like  outraged  stars,  dreaming 
earthward  on  a  sleeping  past,  unwarningly  obscured  by 
a  passing  cloud,  and  then  flashing  out  into  the  night, 
more  brightly  from  the  contrast. 

She  did  not  speak  and  he  crunched  under  his  feet, 
purposely,  the  turf  he  was  standing  on,  and  so  carrying 
out,  naturally,  the  gesture  of  clasping  the  air,  in  estab 
lishing  his  balance  —  as  if  it  was  an  accident. 

She  let  him  believe  she  thought  it  was,  and  secured 
relief  from  the  incident. 

"  Alice  —  Alice !  "  he  exclaimed.     "  I  love  you  —  love 


244         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

you  —  I  must  have  you  in  my  life !     Can  you  not  wear 
this  now?     See!" 

He  tried  to  place  it  on  her  finger.  He  held  the  small 
beautiful  hand  in  his  own.  Then  it  suddenly  withdrew 
itself  and  left  him  holding  his  ring  and  looking  wonder- 
ingly  at  her. 

She  had  thrown  back  her  head,  and,  half  turned,  was 
looking  toward  the  crepa-myrtle  tree  from  which  the 
faint  odor  came. 

"  You  had  better  go,  Richard,"  was  all  she  said. 

"  I'll  come  for  my  answer  —  soon  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  was  silent. 

"  Soon  ?  "  he  repeated  as  he  rose  in  the  stirrup  — 
"  soon  —  and  to  claim  you  always,  Alice." 

He  rode  off  and  left  her  standing  with  her  head  still 
thrown  back,  her  thoughtful  face  drinking  in  the  odor 
of  the  crepe-myrtle. 

Travis  did  not  understand,  for  no  crepe-myrtle  had 
ever  come  into  his  life.  It  could  not  come.  With  him 
all  life  had  been  a  passion  flower,  with  the  rank,  strong 
odor  of  the  sensuous,  wild  honeysuckle,  which  must  climb 
ever  upon  something  else,  in  order  to  open  and  throw 
off  the  rank,  brazen  perfume  from  its  yellow  and  streaked 
and  variegated  blossoms. 

And  how  common  and  vulgar  and  all-surfeiting  it  is, 
loading  the  air  around  it  with  its  sickening  imitation  of 
sweetness,  so  that  even  the  bees  stagger  as  they  pass 
through  it  and  disdain  to  stop  and  shovel,  for  the  mere 
asking,  its  musky  and  illicit  honey. 

But,   O   mystic   odor   of  the   crepe-myrtle  —  O   love 


SWAN-SONG  OF  THE  CREPE-MYRTLE    245 

which  never  dies  —  how  differently  it  grows  and  lives 
and  blooms! 

In  color,  constant  —  a  deep  pink.  Not  enough  of 
red  to  suggest  the  sensual,  nor  yet  lacking  in  it  when 
the  full  moment  of  ripeness  comes.  How  delicately  pink 
it  is,  and  yet  how  unf adingly  it  stands  the  summer's  sun, 
the  hot  air,  the  drought!  How  quickly  it  responds  to 
the  Autumn  showers,  and  long  after  the  honeysuckle 
has  died,  and  the  bees  have  forgotten  its  rank  memory, 
this  beautiful  creature  of  love  blooms  in  the  very  lap  of 
Winter. 

O  love  that  defhs  even  the  breath  of  death ! 

The  yellow  lips  of  the  honeysuckle  are  thick  and  sens 
ual;  but  the  beautiful  petals  of  this  cluster  of  love- 
cells,  all  so  daintily  transparent,  hanging  in  pink  clus 
ters  of  loveliness  with  scalloped  lips  of  purity,  that  even 
the  sunbeam  sends  a  photograph  of  his  heart  through 
them  and  every  moonbeam  writes  in  it  the  romance  of  its 
life.  And 'the  skies  all  day  long,  reflecting  in  its  heart, 
tells  to  the  cool  green  leaves  that  shadow  it  the  story  of 
its  life,  and  it  catches  and  holds  the  sympathy  of  tha 
tiniest  zephyr,  from  the  way  it  flutters  to  the  patter  of 
their  little  feet. 

All  things  of  Nature  love  it  —  the  clouds,  the  winds, 
the  very  stars,  and  sun,  because  love  —  undying  love  — 
is  the  soul  of  God,  its  Maker. 

The  rose  is  red  in  the  rich  passion  of  love,  the  lily  is 
pale  in  the  poverty  of  it;  but  the  crepe-myrtle  is  pink 
in  the  constancy  of  it. 

O  bloom  of  the  crepe-myrtle!  And  none  but  a  lover 
ever  smelled  it  —  none  but  a  lover  ever  knew ! 


246         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

She  ran  up  the  gentle  slope  to  the  old-fashioned  gar 
den  and  threw  herself  under  the  tree  from  whence  the 
dying  odor  came.  She  fell  on  her  knees  —  the  moon 
light  over  her  in  fleckings  of  purification.  She  clung 
to  the  scaly  weather-beaten  stem  of  the  tree  as  she  would 
have  pressed  a  sister  to  her  breast.  Her  arms  were 
around  it  —  she  knew  it  —  it's  very  bark. 

She  seized  a  bloom  that  had  fallen  and  crushed  it  to 
her  bosom  and  her  cheek. 

"  O  Tom  —  Tom  —  why  —  why  did  you  make  me 
love  you  here  and  then  leave  me  forever  with  only  the 
memory  of  it?  " 

''  Twice  does  it  bloom,  dear  Heart, —  can  not  my  love 
bloom  like  it  —  twice  ?  " 

"A-1-i-c-e!" 

The  voice  came  from  out  the  distant  woods  nearby. 

The  blood  leaped  and  then  pricked  her  like  sharp- 
pointed  icicles,  and  they  all  seemed  to  freeze  around  and 
prick  around  her  heart.  She  could  not  breathe.  .  .  . 
Her  head  reeled.  .  .  .  The  crepe-myrtle  fell  on  her 
and  smothered  her.  .  .  . 

When  she  awoke  Mrs.  Westmore  sat  by  her  side  and 
was  holding  her  head  while  her  brother  was  rubbing  her 
arms. 

"  You  must  be  ill,  darling,"  said  her  mother  gently. 
"  I  heard  you  scream.  What  — " 

They  helped  her  to  rise.  Her  heart  still  fluttered  vio 
lently  —  her  head  swam. 

"  Did  you  call  me  before  —  before  " —  she  was  excited 
and  eager. 


SWAN-SONG  OF  THE  CREPE-MYRTLE 

"  Why,  yes  " —  smiled  her  mother.  "  I  said,  '  Alice 
—  Alice!'" 

"  It  was  not  that  —  no,  that  was  not  the  way  it  sound 
ed."  she  said  as  they  led  her  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  CASKET  AND  THE  GHOST 

RICHARD  TRAVIS  could  not  sleep  that  night  — 
why,  he  could  not  tell. 

After  he  returned  from  Westmoreland, 
Mammy  Charity  brought  him  his  cocktail,  and  tidied  up 
his  room,  and  beat  up  the  feathers  in  his  pillows  and  bed 
—  for  she  believed  in  the  old-fashioned  feather-bed  and 
would  have  no  other  kind  in  the  house. 

The  old  clock  in  the  hall  —  that  had  sat  there  since 
long  before  he,  himself,  could  remember  —  struck  ten, 
and  then  eleven,  and  then,  to  his  disgust,  even  twelve. 

At  ten  he  had  taken  another  toddy  to  put  himself  to 
sleep. 

There  is  only  one  excuse  for  drunkenness,  and  that  is 
sleeplessness.  If  there  is  a  hell  for  the  intellectual  it  is 
not  of  fire,  as  for  commoner  mortals,  but  of  sleepless 
ness  —  the  wild  staring  eyes  of  an  eternity  of  sleepless 
ness  following  an  eon  of  that  midnight  mental  anguish 
which  comes  with  the  birth  of  thoughts. 

But  still  he  slept  not,  and  so  at  ten  he  had  taken  an 
other  toddy  —  and  still  another,  and  as  he  felt  its  life 
and  vigor  to  the  ends  of  his  fingers,  he  quaffed  his  fourth 
one ;  then  he  smiled  and  said :  "  And  now  I  don't  care 
if  I  never  go  to  sleep !  " 

He  arose  and  dressed.     He  tried  to  recite  one  of  his 

248 


THE  CASKET  AND  THE  GHOST        249 

favorite  poems,  and  it  angered  him  that  his  tongue 
seemed  thick, 

His  head  slightly  reeled,  but  in  it  there  galloped  a 
thousand  beautiful  dreams  and  there  were  visions  of 
Alice,  and  love,  and  the  satisfaction  of  conquering  and 
the  glory  of  winning. 

He  could  feel  his  heart-throbs  at  the  ends  of  his 
fingers.  He  could  see  thoughts  —  beautiful,  grand 
thoughts  —  long  before  they  reached  him, —  stalking 
like  armed  men,  helmeted  and  vizored,  stalking  forward 
into  his  mind. 

He  walked  out  and  down  the  long  hall. 

The  ticking  of  the  clock  sounded  to  him  so  loud  that 
he  stopped  and  cursed  it. 

Because,  somehow,  it  ticked  every  time  his  heart  beat ; 
and  he  could  count  his  heart-beats  in  his  fingers'  ends, 
and  he  didn't  want  to  know  every  time  his  hea-t  beat. 
It  made  him  nervous. 

It  might  stop;  but  it  would  not  stop.  And  then, 
somehow,  he  imagined  that  his  heart  was  really  out  in 
the  yard,  down  under  the  hill,  and  was  pumping  the 
water  —  as  the  ram  had  done  for  years  —  through  the 
house.  It  was  a  queer  fancy,  and  it  made  him  angry  be 
cause  he  could  not  throw  it  off. 

He  walked  down  the  hall,  rudely  snatched  the  clock 
door  open,  and  stopped  the  big  pendulum.  Then  he 
laughed  sillily. 

The  moonbeams  came  in  at  the  stained  glass  windows, 
and  cast  red  and  yellow  and  pale  green  fleckings  of  light 
on  the  smooth  polished  floor. 


250         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

He  began  to  feel  uncanny.  He  was  no  coward  and  he 
cursed  himself  for  it. 

Things  began  to  come  to  him  in  a  moral  way  and 
mixed  in  with  the  uncanniness  of  it  all.  He  imagined  he 
saw,  off  in  the  big  square  library  across  the  way,  in  the 
very  spot  he  had  seen  them  lay  out  his  grandfather  — 
Maggie,  and  she  arose  suddenly  from  out  of  his  grand 
father's  casket  and  beckoned  to  him  with  — 

"  I  love  you  so  —  I  love  you  so !  " 

It  was  so  real,  he  walked  to  the  spot  and  put  his  hands 
on  the  black  mohair  Davenport.  And  the  form  on  it, 
sitting  bolt  upright,  was  but  the  pillow  he  had  napped 
on  that  afternoon. 

He  laughed  and  it  sounded  hollow  to  him  and  echoed 
down  the  hall : 

"How  like  her  it  looked!" 

He  walked  into  Harry's  room  and  lit  the  lamp  there. 
He  smiled  when  he  glanced  around  the  walls.  There 
were  hunting  scenes  and  actresses  in  scant  clothing.  To 
bacco  pipes  of  all  kinds  on  the  tables,  and  stumps  of  ill- 
smelling  cigarettes,  and  over  the  mantel  was  a  crayon 
picture  of  Death  shaking  the  dice  of  life.  Two  old  cut 
lasses  crossed  underneath  it. 

On  his  writing  desk  Travis  picked  up  and  read  the 
copy  of  the  note  written  to  Helen  the  day  before. 

He  smiled  with  elevated  eyebrows.  Then  he  laughed 
ironically : 

"  The  little  yellow  cur  —  to  lie  down  and  quit  —  to 
throw  her  over  like  that !  Damn  him  —  he  has  a  yellow 
streak  in  him  and  I'll  take  pleasure  in  pulling  down  the 
purse  for  him.  Why,  she  was  born  for  me  anyway ! 


THE  CASKET  AND  THE  GHOST        251 

That  kid,  and  in  love  with  Helen !  Not  for  The  Gaffs 
would  I  have  him  mix  up  with  that  drunken  set  —  nor 
-nor,  well,  not  for  The  Gaffs  to  have  him  quit  like 
that." 

And  yet  it  was  news  to  him.  Wrapped  in  his  own 
selfish  plans,  he  had  never  bothered  himself  about  Harry's 
affairs. 

But  he  kept  on  saying,  as  if  it  hurt  him :  "  The  little 
yellow  cur  —  and  he  a  Travis  !  "  He  laughed :  "  He's 
got  another  one,  I'll  bet  —  got  her  to-night  and  by  now 
is  securely  engaged.  So  much  the  better  —  for  my 
plans." 

Again  he  went  into  the  hall  and  walked  to  and  fro  in 
the  dim  light.  But  the  Davenport  and  the  pillow  in 
stantly  formed  themselves  again  into  Maggie  and  the 
casket,  and  he  turned  in  disgust  to  walk  into  his  own 
room. 

Above  his  head  over  the  doorway  in  the  hall,  on  a  pair 
of  splendid  antlers  —  his  first  trophy  of  the  chase, — 
rested  his  deer  gun,  a  clean  piece  of  Damascus  steel  and 
old  English  walnut,  imported  years  before.  The  bar 
rels  were  forty  inches  and  choked.  The  small  bright 
hammers  rested  on  the  yellow  brass  caps  deep  sunk  on 
steel  nippers.  They  shone  through  the  hammer  slit  fresh 
and  ready  for  use. 

He  felt  a  cold  draught  of  air  blow  on  him  and  turned 
in  surprise  to  find  the  hall  window,  which  reached  to  the 
veranda  floor,  open;  and  he  could  see  the  stars  shining 
above  the  dark  green  foliage  of  the  trees  on  the  lawn 
without. 

At  the  same  instant  there  swept  over  him  a  nervous 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

fear,  and  he  reached  for  his  deer  gun  instinctively.  Then 
there  arose  from  the  Davenport  coffin  a  slouching  un 
kempt  form,  the  fine  bright  eyes  of  which,  as  the  last 
rays  of  the  moonlight  fell  on  them,  were  the  eyes  of  his 
dead  cousin,  Captain  Tom,  and  it  held  out  its  hands 
pleadingly  to  him  and  tenderly  and  with  much  effort 
said: 

*'  Grandfather,  forgive.  I've  come  back  again.9' 
Travis's  heart  seemed  to  freeze  tightly.  He  tried  to 
breathe  —  he  only  gasped  —  and  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  tightened  and  refused  to  open.  He  felt  the  blood 
rush  up  from  around  his  loins,  and  leave  him  paralyzed 
and  weak.  In  sheer  desperation  he  threw  the  gun  to 
his  shoulder,  and  the  next  instant  he  would  have  fired  the 
load  into  the  face  of  the  thing  with  its  voice  of  the  dead, 
had  not  something  burst  on  his  head  with  a  staggering, 
overpowering  blow,  and  despite  his  efforts  to  stand,  his 
knees  gave  way  beneath  him  and  it  seemed  pleasant  for 
him  to  lie  prone  upon  the  floor.  .  .  . 

When  he  awakened  an  hour  afterwards,  he  sat  up,  be 
wildered.  His  gun  lay  beside  him,  but  the  window  was 
closed  securely  and  bolted.  No  night  air  came  in.  The 
Davenport  and  pillow  were  there  as  before.  His  head 
ached  and  there  was  a  bruised  place  over  his  ear.  He 
walked  into  his  own  room  and  lit  the  lamp, 

"  I  may  have  fallen  and  struck  my  head,"  he  said, 
bewildered  with  the  strangeness  of  it  all.  "  I  may  have," 
he  repeated  — "  but  if  I  didn't  see  Tom  Travis's  ghost 
to-night  there  is  no  need  to  believe  one's  senses." 

He   opened   the   door   and   let   in   two   setters   which 


THE  CASKET  AND  THE  GHOST       252 

fawned  upon  him  and  licked  his  hand.  All  his  nervous 
ness  vanished. 

"  No  one  knows  the  comfort  of  a  dog's  company,"  he 
said,  "  who  does  not  love  a  dog?  " 

Then  he  bathed  his  face  and  head  and  went  to  sleep. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  Jack  Bracken  led  Captain 
Tom  in  and  put  him  to  bed. 

"  A  close  shave  for  you,  Cap'n  Tom,"  he  said  — "  I 
struck  just  in  time.  I'll  not  leave  you  another  night 
with  the  door  unlocked."  Then :  "  But  poor  fellow  — 
how  can  we  blame  him  for  wandering  off,  after  all  those 
years,  and  trying  to  get  back  again  to  his  boyhood 
home." 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  MIDNIGHT  GUARD 

JACK  BRACKEN  rolled  himself  in  his  blanket  on 
the  cot,  placed  in  the  room  next  to  Captain  Tom, 
and  prepared  to  sleep  again. 

But  the  excitement  of  the  night  had  been  great ;  his 
sudden  awakening  from  sleep,  his  missing  Captain  Tom, 
and  finding  him  in  time  to  prevent  a  tragedy,  had 
aroused  him  thoroughly,  and  now  sleep  was  far  from  his 
eyes. 

And  so  he  lay  and  thought  of  his  past  life,  and  as  it 
passed  before  him  it  shook  him  with  nervous  sleepless 
ness. 

It  hurt  him.  He  lay  arid  panted  with  the  strong  sor 
row  of  it. 

Perhaps  it  was  that,  but  with  it  were  thoughts  also  of 
little  Jack,  and  the  tears  came  into  the  eyes  of  the  big- 
hearted  outlaw. 

He  had  his  plans  all  arranged  —  he  and  the  Bishop  — 
and  now  as  the  village  blacksmith  he  would  begin  the  life 
of  an  honest  man. 

Respected  —  his  heart  beat  proudly  to  think  of  it. 

Respected  —  how  little  it  means  to  the  man  who  is, 
how  much  to  the  man  who  is  not. 

"  Why,"  he  said  to  himself  — "  perhaps  after  a  while 
people  will  stop  and  talk  to  me  an'  say  as  they  pass  my 

254 


A  MIDNIGHT  GUARD  255 

shop :  '  Good  mornin',  neighbor,  how  are  you  to-day  ?  ' 
Little  children  —  sweet  an'  innocent  little  children  — 
comin'  from  school  may  stop  an'  watch  the  sparks  fly 
from  my  anvil,  like  they  did  in  the  poem  I  onct  read, 
an'  linger  aroun'  an'  talk  to  me,  shy  like ;  maybe,  after 
awhile  I'll  get  their  confidence,  so  they  will  learn  to  love 
me,  an'  call  me  Uncle  Jack  —  Uncle  Jack,"  he  repeated 
softly. 

"  An'  I  won't  be  suspectin'  people  any  mo'  an'  none  of 
'em  will  be  my  enemy.  I'll  not  be  carryin'  pistols  an' 
havin'  buckets  of  gold  an'  not  a  friend  in  the  worl'." 

His  heart  beat  fast  —  he  could  scarcely  wait  for  the 
morning  to  come,  so  anxious  was  he  to  begin  the  life  of 
an  honest  man  again.  He  who  had  been  an  outlaw  so 
long,  who  had  not  known  what  it  was  to  know  human 
sympathy  and  human  friendship  —  it  thrilled  him  with 
a  rich,  sweet  flood  of  joy. 

Then  suddenly  a  great  wave  swept  over  him  —  a  wave 
of  such  exquisite  joy  that  he  fell  on  his  knees  and  cried 
out :  "  O  God,  I  am  a  changed  man  —  how  happy  I 
am!  jus'  to  be  human  agin  an'  not  hounded!  How  can 
I  thank  You  —  You  who  have  given  me  this  blessed 
Man  the  Bishop  tells  us  about  —  this  Christ  who  reaches 
out  an'  takes  us  by  the  han'  an'  lifts  us  up.  O  God, 
if  there  is  divinity  given  to  man,  it  is  given  to  that  man 
who  can  lift  up  another,  as  the  po'  outlaw  knows." 

He  lay  silent  and  thoughtful.  All  day  and  night  — 
since  he  had  first  seen  Margaret,  her  eyes  had  haunted 
him.  He  had  not  seen  her  before  for  many  years;  but 
in  all  that  time  there  had  not  been  a  day  when  he  had 
not  thought  of  —  loved  —  her. 


256         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Margaret  —  her  loneliness  —  the  sadness  of  her  life, 
all  haunted  him.  She  lived,  he  knew,  alone,  in  her  cot 
tage  —  an  outcast  from  society.  He  had  looked  but 
once  in  her  eyes  and  caught  the  lingering  look  of  appeal 
which  unconsciously  lay  there.  He  knew  she  loved  him 
yet  —  it  was  there  as  plain  as  in  his  own  face  was  writ 
ten  the  fact  that  he  loved  her.  He  thought  of  himself 
— •  of  her.  Then  he  said : 

"  For  fifteen  years  I  have  robbed  —  killed  —  oh,  God 

—  killed  —  how  it  hurts  me  now !      All  the  category  of 
crime  in  bitter  wickedness  I  have  run.     And  she  —  once 

—  and  now  an  angel  —  Bishop  himself  says  so." 

"  I  am  a  new  man  —  I  am  a  respectable  and  honest 
man," —  here  he  arose  on  his  cot  and  drew  himself  up  — 
"  I  am  Jack  Smith  —  Mr.  Jack  Smith,  the  blacksmith, 
and  my  word  is  my  bond." 

He  slipped  out  quietly.  Once  again  in  the  cool  night, 
under  the  stars  which  he  had  learned  to  love  as  brothers 
and  whose  silent  paths  across  the  heavens  were  to  him  old 
familiar  footpaths,  he  felt  at  ease,  and  his  nervousness 
left  him. 

He  had  not  intended  to  speak  to  Margaret  then  —  for 
he  thought  she  was  asleep.  He  wished  only  to  guard 
her  cabin,  up  among  the  stunted  old  field  pines  —  while 
she  slept  —  to  see  the  room  he  knew  she  slept  in  —  thr. 
little  window  she  looked  out  of  every  day. 

The  little  cabin  was  a  hallowed  spot  to  him.  Some 
how  he  knew  —  he  felt  that  whatever  might  be  said  — 
in  it  he  knew  an  angel  dwelt.  He  could  not  understand 

—  he  only  knew. 


A  MIDNIGHT  GUARD  257 

There  is  a  moral  sense  within  us  that  is  a  greater 
teacher  than  either  knowledge  or  wisdom. 

For  an  hour  he  stood  with  his  head  uncovered  watch 
ing  the  little  cabin  where  she  lived.  Everything  about 
it  was  sacred,  because  Margaret  lived  there.  It  was 
pretty,  too,  in  its  neatness  and  cleanliness,  and  there  were 
old-fashioned  flowers  in  the  yard  and  old-fashioned  roses 
clambered  on  the  rock  wrall. 

He  sat  down  in  the  path  —  the  little  white  sanded  path 
down  which  he  knew  she  went  every  day,  and  so  made 
sacred  by  her  footsteps. 

"  Perhaps,  I  am  near  one  of  them  now,"  he  said  — 
and  he  kissed  the  spot. 

And  that  night  and  many  others  did  the  outlaw  watch 
over  the  lonely  cabin  on  the  mountain  side.  And  she, 
the  outcast  woman,  slept  within,  unconscious  that  she 
was  being  protected  by  the  man  who  had  loved  her  all 
his  life. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   THEFT   OF  A   CHILDHOOD 

Y  II  HE  Watts  children  were  up  the  next  morning  by 
four  o'clock. 

Mrs.  Watts  ate,  always,  by  candle-light. 
The  sun,  she  thought,  would  be  dishonored,  were  he  to 
find  her  home  in  disorder,  her  breakfast  uncooked,  her 
day's  work  not  ready  for  her,  with  his  first  beams. 

For  Mrs.  Watts  did  not  consider  that  arising  at  four, 
and  cooking  and  sweeping  and  tidying  up  the  cabin,  and 
quarreling  with  the  Bishop  as  "  a  petty  old  bundle  of 
botheration  "  —  and  storming  around  at  the  children  — 
all  by  sun-up  —  this  was  not  work  at  all. 

It  was  merely  an  appetizer. 

The  children  were  aroused  by  her  this  morning  with 
more  severity  than  usual.  Half  frightened  they  rolled 
stupidly  out  of  their  beds  —  Appomattox,  Atlanta,  and 
Shiloh  from  one,  and  the  boys  from  another.  Then 
they  began  to  put  on  their  clothes  in  the  same  listless, 
dogged,  mechanical  way  they  had  learned  to  do  every 
thing —  learned  it  while  working  all  day  between  the 
whirl  of  the  spindle  and  the  buzz  of  the  bobbin. 

The  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  and  a  cold  gray  mist  crept 
up  from  the  valley,  closing  high  up  and  around  the 
wood-girdled  brow  of  the  mountain  as  billows  around 
a  rock  in  the  sea.  The  faint,  far-off  crowing  of  cocks 

258 


THE  THEFT  OF  A  CHILDHOOD         259 

added  to  the  weirdness ;  for  their  shrill  voices  alone  broke 
through  the  silence  which  came  down  with  the  mist. 
Around  the  brow  of  Sand  Mountain  the  vapor  made  a 
faint  halo  —  touched  as  it  was  by  the  splendid  flush  of 
the  East. 

It  was  all  grand  and  beautiful  enough  without,  but 
within  was  the  poverty  of  work,  and  the  two  —  poverty 
and  work  —  had  already  had  their  effect  on  the  children, 
except,  perhaps,  Shiloh.  She  had  not  yet  been  in  the 
mill  long  enough  to  be  automatonized. 

Looking  out  of  the  window  she  saw  the  star  setting  be 
hind  the  mountain,  and  she  thought  it  slept,  by  day,  in 
a  cavern  she  knew  of  there. 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  fine,  Mattox,"  she  cried,  "  if  we  didn't 
have  to  work  at  the  mill  to-day  an'  cu'd  run  up  on  the 
mountain  an'  pick  up  that  star?  I  seed  one  fall  onct 
an'  I  picked  it  up." 

For  a  moment  the  little  face  was  thoughtful  —  wist 
ful  —  then  she  added : 

"  I  wonder  how  it  would  feel  to  spen'  the  day  in  the 
woods  onct.  Archie  B.  says  it's  just  fine  and  flowers 
grow  everywhere.  Oh,  jes'  to  be  'quainted  with  one 
Jeree  —  like  Archie  B.  is  —  an'  have  him  come  to  yo' 
winder  every  mornin'  an'  say,  *  Wake  up,  Pet!  Wake 
up,  Pet!  Wake  up,  Pet!  '  An'  then  hear  a  little  'un 
over  in  another  tree  say,  *  So-s-l-ee-py  —  So-s-l-ee-py!  " 

Her  chatter  ceased  again.  Then :  "  Mattox,  did  you 
ever  see  a  rabbit?  I  seen  one  onct,  a  settin'  up  in  a 
fence  corner  an'  a  spittin'  on  his  han's  to  wash  his  face." 

She  laughed  at  the  thought  of  it.  But  the  other  chil 
dren,  who  had  dressed,  sat  listlessly  in  their  seats,  looking 


260         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

at  her  with  irresponsive  eyes,  set  deep  back  into  tired, 
lifeless,  weazened  faces. 

"  I'd  ruther  a  rabbit  'ud  wash  his  face  than  mine," 
drawled  Bull  Run. 

Mrs.  Watts  came  in  and  jerked  the  chair  from  under 
him  and  he  sat  down  sprawling.  Then  he  lazily  arose 
and  deliberately  spat,  between  his  teeth,  into  the  fire 
place. 

There  was  not  enough  of  him  alive  to  feel  that  he  had 
been  imposed  upon. 

For  breakfast  they  had  big  soda  biscuits  and  fried 
bacon  floating  in  its  own  grease.  There  was  enough  of 
it  left  for  the  midday  lunch.  This  was  put  into  a  tin 
pail  with  a  tight  fitting  top.  The  pail,  when  opened, 
smelt  of  the  death  and  remains  of  ev^ery  other  soda  bis 
cuit  that  had  ever  been  laid  away  within  this  tightly 
closed  mausoleum  of  tin. 

They  had  scarcely  eaten  before  the  shrill  scream  of 
the  mill-whistle  called  them  to  their  work. 

Shiloh,  at  the  sound,  stuck  her  small  fingers  into  her 
ears  and  shuddered. 

Then  the  others  struck  out  across  the  yard,  and  Shiloh 
followed. 

To  this  child  of  seven,  who  had  already  worked  six 
months  in  the  factory,  the  scream  of  the  whistle  was  the 
call  of  a  frightful  monster,  whose  black  smoke-stack  of 
a  snout,  with  its  blacker  breath  coming  out,  and  the 
flaming  eyes  of  the  engine  glaring  through  the  smoke, 
completed  the  picture  of  a  wild  beast  watching  her. 
Within,  the  whirr  and  tremble  of  shuttle  and  machinery 
were  the  purr  and  pulsation  of  its  heart. 


THE  THEFT  OF  A  CHILDHOOD         261 

She  was  a  nervous,  sensitive  child,  who  imagined  far 
more  than  she  saw ;  and  the  very  uncanniness  of  the  dark 
misty  morning,  the  silence,  broken  only  by  the  tremble 
and  roar  of  the  mill,  the  gaunt  shadows  of  the  overtop 
ping  mountain,  filled  her  with  childish  fears. 

Nature  can  do  no  more  than  she  is  permitted ;  and  the 
terrible  strain  of  twelve  hours'  work,  every  day  except 
Sunday,  for  the  past  six  months,  where  every  faculty, 
from  hand  and  foot  to  body,  eye  and  brain,  must  be 
alert  and  alive  to  watch  and  piece  the  never-ceasing 
breaking  of  the  threads,  had  already  begun  to  under 
mine  the  half-formed  frame-work  of  that  little  life. 

As  she  approached  the  mill  she  clung  to  the  hand  of 
Appomattox,  and  shrinking,  kept  her  sister  between  her 
self  and  the  Big  Thing  which  put  the  sweet  morning 
air  a-flutter  around  its  lair.  As  she  drew  near  the  door 
she  almost  cried  out  in  affright  —  her  little  heart  grew 
tight,  her  lips  were  drawn. 

"  Oh,  it  can't  hurt  you,  Shiloh,"  said  her  sister  pulling 
her  along.  "  You'll  be  all  right  when  you  get  inside." 

There  was  a  snarling  clatter  and  crescendo  tremble, 
ending  in  an  all-drowning  roar^  as  the  big  door  was 
pushed  open  for  a  moment,  and  Shiloh,  quaking,  but 
brave,  was  pulled  in,  giving  the  tiny  spark  of  her  little 
life  to  add  to  the  Big  Thing's  fire. 

Within,  she  was  reassured ;  for  there  was  her  familiar 
spinning  frame,  with  its  bobbins  ready  to  be  set  to  spin 
ning  and  whirling;  and  the  room  was  full  of  people, 
many  as  small  as  she. 

The  companionship,  even  of  fear,  is  helpful. 

Besides,  the  roar  and  clatter  drowned  everything  else. 


262         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Shiloh  was  too  small  to  see,  to  know;  b.ut  had  she 
looked  to  the  right  as  she  entered,  she  had  seen  a  sight 
which  would  have  caused  a  stone  man  to  flush  with  pity. 
It  was  Byrd  Boyle,  one  of  the  mill  hands  who  ran  a 
slubbing  machine,  and  he  held  in  his  arms  (because 
they  were  too  young  to  walk  so  far)  twins,  a  boy  and 
a  girl.  And  they  looked  like  half  made  up  dolls  left 
out  on  the  grass,  weather-beaten  by  summer  rains. 
They  were  too  small  to  know  where  their  places  were 
in  the  room,  and  as  their  father  sat  tl^em  down,  in  their 
proper  places,  it  took  the  two  together  to  run  one  side 
of  a  spinner,  and  the  tiny  little  workers  could  scarcely 
reach  to  their  whirling  bobbins. 

To  the  credit  of  Richard  Travis,  this  working  of  chil 
dren  under  twelve  years  of  age  in  the  mills  was  done 
over  his  protest.  Not  so  with  Kingsley  and  his  wife, 
who  were  experienced  mill  people  from  New  England 
and  knew  the  harm  of  it  —  morally,  physically.  Travis 
had  even  made  strict  regulations  on  the  subject,  only  to 
be  overruled  by  the  combined  disapproval  of  Kingslej' 
and  the  directors  and,  strange  to  say,  of  the  parents  of 
the  children  themselves.  His  determination  that  only 
children  of  twelve  years  and  over  should  work  in  the 
mill  came  to  naught,  more  from  the  opposition  of  the 
parents  themselves  than  that  of  Kingsley.  These,  to 
earn  a  little  more  for  the  family,  did  not  hesitate  to  bring 
a  child  of  eight  to  the  mill  and  swear  it  was  twelve. 
This  and  the  ruling  of  the  directors, —  and  worse  than 
all,  the  lack  of  any  state  law  on  the  subject, —  had 
brought  about  the  pitiful  condition  which  prevailed 
then  as  now  in  Southern  cotton  mills. 


THE  THEFT  OF  A  CHILDHOOD 

There  was  no  talking  inside  the  mill.  Only  the  Big 
Thing  was  permitted  to  talk.  No  singing  —  for  songs 
come  from  the  happy  heart  of  labor,  unshackled.  No 
noise  of  childhood,  though  the  children  were  there. 
They  were  flung  into  an  arena  for  a  long  day's  fight 
against  a  thing  of  steel  and  steam,  and  there  was  no  ime 
for  anything  save  work,  work,  work  —  walk,  walk,  walk 
—  watch,  forever  wratch, —  the  interminable  flying  whirl 
of  spindle  and  spool. 

Early  as  it  was,  the  children  were  late,  and  were  sound 
ly  rebuffed  by  the  foreman. 

The  scolding  hurt  only  Shiloh  —  it  made  her  tremble 
and  cry.  The  others  were  hardened  —  insensible  — 
and  took  it  with  about  the  same  degree  of  indifference 
with  which  caged  and  starved  mice  look  at  the  man  who 
pours  over  their  wire  traps  the  hot  water  which  scalds 
them  to  death. 

The  fight  between  steel,  steam  and  child-flesh  was  on. 

Shiloh,  Appomattox  and  Atlanta  were  spinners. 

Spinners  are  small  girls  who  walk  up  and  down  an 
aisle  before  a  spinning-frame  and  piece  up  the  threads 
which  are  forever  breaking.  There  were  over  a  hundred 
spindles  on  each  side  of  the  frame,  each  revolving  with 
the  rapidity  of  an  incipient  cyclone  and  snapping  every 
now  and  then  the  delicate  white  thread  that  was  spun 
out  like  spiders'  wreb  from  the  rollers  and  the  cylin 
ders,  making  a  balloon-like  gown  of  cotton  thread,  which 
settled  continuously  around  the  bobbin. 

All  day  long  and  into  the  night,  they  must  walk  up 
and  down,  between  these  two  rows  of  spinning-frames, 


264         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

amid  the  whirling  spindles,  piecing  the  broken  threads 
which  were  forever  breaking. 

It  did  not  require  strength,  but  a  certain  skill,  which, 
unfortunately,  childhood  possessed  more  than  the  adult. 
Not  power,  but  dexterity,  watchfulness,  quickness  and 
the  Jbility  to  walk  —  as  children  walk  —  and  watch  — 
as  age  should  watch. 

No  wonder  that  in  a  few  months  the  child  becomes,  not 
the  flesh  and  blood  of  its  heredity,  but  the  steel  and  wood 
of  its  environment. 

Bull  Run  and  Seven  Days  were  doffer's,  and  confined 
to  the  same  set  of  frames.  They  followed  their  sisters, 
taking  off  the  full  bobbins  and  throwing  them  into  a 
cart  and  thrusting  an  empty  bobbin  into  its  place.  This 
requires  an  eye  of  lightning  and  a  hand  with  the  quick 
ness  of  its  stroke. 

For  it  must  be  done  between  the  pulsings  of  the  Big 
Thing's  heart  —  a  flash,  a  snap,  a  snarl  of  broken  thread 
—  up  in  the  left  hand  flies  the  bobbin  from  its  disentan 
glement  of  thread  and  skein,  and  down  over  the  buzzing 
point  of  steel  spindles  settles  the  empty  bobbin,  thrust 
over  the  spindle  by  the  right. 

It  is  all  done  with  two  quick  movements  —  a  flash  and 
a  jerk  of  one  hand  up,  and  the  other  down,  the  eye 
riveted  to  the  nicety  of  a  hair's  breadth,  the  stroke  down 
ward  gauged  to  the  cup  of  a  thimble,  to  settle  over  the 
point  of  the  spindle's  end ;  for  the  missing  of  a  thread's 
breadth  would  send  a  spindle  blade  through  the  hand,  or 
tangle  and  snap  a  thread  which  was  turning  with  a  thou 
sand  revolutions  in  a  minute. 

Snap  —  bang!     Snap  —  bang!     One    hundred    and 


THE  THEFT  OF  A  CHILDHOOD         265 

twenty  times  —  Snap  —  bang!  and  back  again,  went 
the  deft  little  workers  pushing  their  cart  before  them. 

Full  at  last,  their  cart  is  whirled  away  with  flying 
heels  to  another  machine. 

It  was  a  steady,  lightning,  endless  track.  Their  little 
trained  fingers  betook  of  their  surroundings  and  worked 
like  fingers  of  steel.  Their  legs  seemed  made  of  India 
rubber.  Their  eyes  shot  out  right  and  left,  left  and 
right,  looking  for  the  broken  threads  on  the  whirling 
bobbins  as  hawks  sweep  over  the  marsh  grass  looking  for 
mice,  and  the  steel  claws,  which  swooped  down  on  the 
bobbins  when  they  found  it,  made  the  simile  not 
unsuitable. 

Young  as  she  was,  Shiloh  managed  one  of  these  har 
nessed,  fiery  lines  of  dancing  witches,  pirouetting  on 
boards  of  hardened  oak  or  hickory.  Up  and  down  she 
walked  —  up  and  down,  watching  these  endless  whirling 
figures,  her  bare  fingers  pitted  against  theirs  of  brass, 
her  bare  feet  against  theirs  shod  with  iron,  her  little  head 
against  theirs  insensate  and  unpitying,  her  little  heart 
against  theirs  of  flame  which  throbbed  in  the  boiler's 
bosom  and  drove  its  thousand  steeds  with  a  whip  of  fire. 

In  the  bloodiest  and  crudest  days  of  the  Roman  Em 
pire,  man  was  matched  against  wild  beasts.  But  in  the 
man's  hand  was  the  blade  of  his  ancestors  and  over  his 
breast  the  steel  ribs  which  had  helped  his  people  to  con 
quer  the  world. 

And  in  the  Beast's  body  was  a  heart! 

Ay,  and  the  man  was  a  man  —  a  trained  gladiator  — 
and  he  was  nerved  by  the  cheers  of  thousands  of  sym 
pathizing  spectators. 


266         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

And  now,  centuries  after,  and  in  the  age  of  so-called 
kindness,  comes  this  battle  to  be  fought  over.  And  the 
fight,  now  as  then,  is  for  bread  and  life. 

But  how  cruelly  unfair  is  the  fight  of  to-day,  when 
the  weak  and  helpless  child  is  made  the  gladiator,  and 
the  fight  is  for  bread,  and  the  Beast  is  of  steel  and 
steam,  and  is  soulless  and  heartless.  Steel  —  that  by 
which  the  old  gladiator  conquered  —  that  is  the  heart  of 
the  Thing  the  little  one  must  fight.  And  the  cheers  — 
the  glamour  of  it  is  lacking,  for  the  little  one  cannot 
hear  even  the  sound  of  its  own  voice  —  in  the  roar  of 
the  thousand-throated  Thing  which  drives  the  Steel 
Beast  on. 

Seven  o'clock  —  eight  o'clock  —  Shiloh's  head  swam 
—  her  shoulders  ached,  her  ears  quivered  with  sensitive 
ness,  and  seemed  not  to  catch  sounds  any  more,  but  sharp 
and  shooting  pains.  She  was  dazed  already  and  weak ; 
but  still  the  Steam  Thing  cheered  its  steel  legions  on. 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down  she  walked,  her  baby 
thoughts  coming  to  her  as  through  the  roar  of  a  Niagara, 
through  pain  and  sensitiveness,  through  aches  and  a  dull, 
never-ending  sameness. 

Nine  o'clock !     Oh,  she  was  so  tired  of  it  all ! 

Hark,  she  thought  she  heard  a  bird  sing  in  a  far  off, 
dreamy  way,  and  for  a  moment  she  made  mud  pies  in 
the  back  yard  of  the  hut  on  the  mountain,  under  the 
black-oak  in  the  yard,  with  the  glint  of  soft  sunshine 
over  everything  and  the  murmur  of  green  leaves  in  the 
trees  above,  as  the  wind  from  off  the  mountain  went 
through  them,  and  the  anemone,  and  bellworts,  and 
daisies  grew  beneath  and  around.  Was  it  a  bluebird? 


THE  THEFT  OF  A  CHILDHOOD        267 

She  had  never  seen  but  one  and  it  had  built  its  nest  in  a 
hole  in  a  hollow  tree,  the  summer  before  she  went  into 
the  mill  to  work. 

She  listened  again  —  yes,  it  did  sound  something  like 
a  bluebird,  peeping  in  a  distant  far  off  way,  such  as  she 
had  heard  in  the  cabin  on  the  mountain  before  she  had 
ever  heard  the  voice  of  the  Big  Thing  at  the  mill.  She 
listened,  and  a  wave  of  disappointment  swept  over  her 
baby  face ;  for,  listening  closely,  she  found  it  was  an  un- 
oiled  separator,  that  peeped  in  a  bluebird  way  now  and 
then,  above  the  staccato  of  some  rusty  spindle. 

But  in  the  song  of  that  bluebird  and  the  glory  of  an 
imaginary  mud  pie,  all  the  disappointment  of  what  she 
had  missed  swept  over  her. 

Ten  o'clock  —  the  little  fingers  throbbed  and  burned, 
the  tiny  legs  were  stiff  and  tired,  the  little  head  seemed 
as  a  block  of  wood,  but  still  the  Steam  Thing  took  no 
thought  of  rest. 

Eleven  o'clock  —  oh,  but  to  rest  awhile !  To  rest  un 
der  the  trees  in  the  yard,  for  the  sunshine  looked  so  warm 
and  bright  out  under  the  mill-windows,  and  the  memory 
of  that  bluebird's  song,  though  but  an  imitation,  still 
echoed  in  her  ear.  And  those  mud  pies  !  —  she  saw  them 
all  around  her  and  in  such  lovely  bits  of  old  broken 
crockery  and  —  ... 

She  felt  a  rude  punch  in  the  side.  It  was  Jud  Car 
penter  standing  over  her  and  pointing  to  where  a 
frowzled  broken  thread  was  tangling  itself  around  a  sep 
arator.  She  had  dreamed  but  a  minute  —  half  a  dozen 
threads  had  broken. 

It  was  a  rude  punch  and  it  hurt  her  side  and  fright- 


268        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

ened  her.  With  a  snarl  and  a  glare  he  passed  on  while 
Shiloh  flew  to  her  bobbin. 

This  fright  made  her  work  the  next  hour  with  less 
fatigue.  But  she  could  not  forget  the  song  of  the  blue 
bird,  and  once,  when  Appomattox  looked  at  her,  she  was 
working  her  mouth  in  a  song, —  a  Sunday  School  song 
she  had  picked  up  at  the  Bishop's  church.  Appomattox 
could  not  hear  it  —  no  one  had  a  license  to  hear  a  song 
in  the  Beast  Thing's  Den  —  nothing  was  ever  privileged 
to  sing  but  it, —  but  she  knew  from  the  way  her  mouth 
was  working  that  Shiloh  was  singing. 

Oh,  the  instinct  of  happiness  in  the  human  heart !  To 
sing  through  noises  and  aches  and  tired  feet  and  stunned, 
blocky  heads.  To  sing  with  no  hope  before  her  and  the 
theft  of  her  very  childhood  —  ay,  her  life  —  going  on 
by  the  Beast  Thing  and  his  men. 

God  intended  us  to  be  happy,  else  He  had  never  put 
so  strong  an  instinct  there. 

Twelve  o'clock.  The  Steam  Beast  gave  a  triumphant 
scream  heard  above  the  roar  of  shuttle  and  steel.  It 
was  a  loud,  defiant,  victorious  roar'  which  drowned  all 
others. 

Then  it  purred  and  paused  for  breath  —  purred  softer 
and  softer  and  —  slept  at  last. 

It  was  noon. 

The  silence  now  was  almost  as  painful  to  Shiloh  as 
the  noise  had  been.  The  sudden  stopping  of  shuttle  and 
wheel  and  belt  and  beam  did  not  stop  the  noise  in  her 
head.  It  throbbed  and  buzzed  there  in  an  echoing  ache, 
as  if  all  the  previous  sounds  had  been  fire-waves  and 
these  the  scorched  furrows  of  its  touch.  Wherever  she 


THE  THEFT  OF  A  CHILDHOOD 

turned,  the  echo  of  the  morning's  misery  sounded  in  her 
ears. 

And  now  they  had  forty  minutes  for  noon  recess. 

They  sat  in  a  circle,  these  five  children  —  and  ate 
their  lunch  of  cold  soda  biscuits  and  fat  bacon. 

Not  a  word  did  they  say  —  not  a  laugh  nor  a  sound 
to  show  they  were  children, —  not  even  a  sigh  to  show 
they  were  human. 

Silently,  like  wooden  things  they  choked  it  down  and 
then  —  O  men  and  women  who  love  your  own  little  ones 
-look! 

Huddled  together  on  the  great,  greasy,  dirty  floor  of 
this  mill,  in  all  the  attitudes  of  tired-out,  exhausted 
childhood,  they  slept.  Shiloh  slept  bolt  upright,  her 
little  head  against  the  spinning-frame,  where  all  the 
morning  she  had  chased  the  bobbins  up  and  down  the 
long  aisle.  Appomattox  and  Atlanta  were  grouped 
against  her.  Bull  Run  slept  at  her  feet  and  Seven  Days 
lay,  half  way  over  on  his  bobbin  cart,  so  tired  that  he 
went  to  sleep  as  he  tried  to  climb  into  it. 

In  other  parts  of  the  mill,  other  little  ones  slept  and 
even  large  girls  and  boys,  after  eating,  dozed  or  chatted. 
Spoolers,  weavers,  slubbers,  warpers,  nearly  grown  but 
all  hard-faced,  listless  —  and  many  of  them  slept  on 
shawls  and  battings  of  cotton. 

They  were  awakened  by  the  big  whistle  at  twenty  min 
utes  to  one  o'clock.  At  the  same  time,  Jud  Carpenter, 
the  foreman,  passed  down  the  aisles  and  dashed  cold 
water  in  the  sleeping  faces.  Half  laughingly  he  did  it, 
but  the  little  ones  arose  instantly,  and  with  stooped 
forms,  and  tired,  cowed  eyes,  in  which  the  Anglo-Saxon 


270         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

spirit  of  resentment  had  been  killed  by  the  Yankee  spirit 
of  greed,  they  looked  at  the  foreman,  and  then  began 
their  long  six  hours'  battle  with  the  bobbins. 

Three  o'clock !  The  warm  afternoon's  sun  poured  on 
the  low  flat  tin  roof  of  the  mill  and  warmed  the  interior 
to  a  temperature  which  was  uncomfortable. 

Shiloh  grew  sleepy  —  she  dragged  her  stumbling  lit 
tle  feet  along,  and  had  she  stopped  but  a  moment,  she 
had  paid  the  debt  that  childhood  owes  to  fairy-land. 
The  air  was  close  —  stifling.  Her  shoulders  ached  — 
her  head  seemed  a  stuffy  thing  of  wood  and  wooly  lint. 

As  it  was  she  nodded  as  she  walked,  and  again  the 
song  of  the  bluebird  peeped  dreamily  from  out  the  un- 
oiled  spindle.  She  tried  to  sing  to  keep  awake,  and 
then  there  came  a  strange  phantasy  to  mix  with  it  all, 
and  out  of  the  half -awake  world  in  which  she  now  stag 
gered  along  she  caught  sight  of  something  which  made 
her  open  her  eyes  and  laugh  outright. 

Was  it  —  could  it  be?     In  very  truth  it  was  — 

Dolls! 

And  oh,  so  many!    And  all  in  a  row  dressed  in  match 
less  gowns  of  snowy  white.     She  would  count  them  up  to 
ten  —  as  far  as  she  had  learned  to  count.      .      .     .     But 
there    were    ten, —  yes,    and    many    more    than    ten  — 
.     .     .     and  just  to  think  of  whole  rows  of  them  - 
.     .     .     all  there  —       ...     and  waiting  for  her  to 
reach  out  and  fondle  and  caress. 

And  she  —  never  in  her  life  before  had  she  been  so  for 
tunate  as  to  own  one.  .  ... 

A  smile  lit  up  her  dreaming  eyes.  Rows  upon  rows 
of  dolls.  .  .  .  And  not  even  Appomattox  and  At- 


THE  THEFT  OF  A  CHILDHOOD        271 

lanta  had  ever  seen  so  many  before;  and  now  how  funny 
they  acted,  dancing  around  and  around  and  bobbing  their 
quaint  bodies  and  winking  and  nodding  at  her.  .  .  . 
It  was  Mayday  with  them  and  down  the  long  line  of  spin 
dles  these  cotton  dolls  were  dancing  around  their  May 
Queen,  and  beckoning  Shiloh  to  join  them. 

It  was  too  cute  —  too  cunning  —  /  they  were  dancing 
and   drawing   her   in  —  they    were   actually   swiging  — 
humming  and  chanting  a  May  song. 

O  lovely  —  lovely  dolls! 

Jud  Carpenter  found  her  asleep  in  the  greasy  aisle, 
her  head  resting  on  her  arm,  a  smile  on  her  little  face  — 
a  hand  clasping  a  rounded  well-threaded  doll-like  bobbin 
to  her  breast. 

It  is  useless  to  try  to  speak  in  a  room  in  which  the 
Steam  Beast's  voice  drowns  all  other  voices.  It  is  use 
less  to  try  to  awaken  one  by  calling.  One  might  as 
well  stand  under  Niagara  Falls  and  whistle  to  the  little 
fishes.  No  other  voice  can  be  heard  while  the  Steam 
Beast  speaks. 

Shiloh  was  awakened  by  a  dash  of  cold  water  and  a 
rough  kick  from  the  big  boot  of  that  other  beast  who 
called  himself  the  overseer.  He  did  not  intend  to  jostle 
her  hard,  but  Shiloh  was  such  a  little  thing  that  the 
kick  she  got  in  the  side  accompanied  by  the  dash  of 
water  shocked  and  frightened  her  instantly  to  her  feet, 
and  with  scared  eyes  and  blanched  face  she  darted  down 
to  the  long  line  of  bobbins,  mending  the  threads. 

If,  in  the  great  Mystic  Unknown, —  the  Eden  of  Bal 
ance, —  there  lies  no  retributive  Cause  to  right  the  in 
justice  of  that  cruel  Effect,  let  us  hope  there  is  no  Here- 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

after;  that  we  all  die  and  rot  like  dogs,  who  know  no 
justice;  that  what  little  kindness  and  sweetness  and  right, 
man,  through  his  happier  dreams,  his  hopeful,  cheerful 
idealism,  has  tried  to  establish  in  the  world,  may  no 
longer  stand  as  mockery  to  the  Sweet  Philosopher  who 
long  ago  said :  "  Suffer  the  little  children  to  come  unto 
me" 

They  were  more  dead  than  alive  when,  at  seven  o'clock, 
the  Steam  Beast  uttered  the  last  volcanic  howl  which  said 
they  might  go  home. 

Outside  the  stars  were  shining  and  the  cool  night  air 
struck  into  them  with  a  suddenness  which  made  them 
shiver.  They  were  children,  and  so  they  were  thought 
less  and  did  not  know  the  risk  they  ran  by  coming  out  of 
a  warm  mill,  hot  and  exhausted,  into  the  cool  air  of  an 
Autumn  night.  Shiloh  was  so  tired  and  sleepy  that 
Bull  Run  and  Seven  Days  had  to  carry  her  between 
them. 

Everybody  passed  out  of  the  mill  —  a  speechless,  hag 
gard,  over-worked  procession.  Byrd  Boyle,  with  a  face 
and  form  which  seemed  to  belong  to  a  slave  age,  carried 
his  twins  in  his  arms. 

Their  heads  lay  on  his  shoulders.     They  were  asleep. 

Scarcely  had  the  children  eaten  their  supper  of  bis- 
suit  and  bacon,  augmented  with  dandelion  salad,  ere  they, 
too,  were  asleep  —  all  but  Shiloh. 

She  could  not  sleep  —  now  that  she  wanted  to  —  and 
she  lay  in  her  grandfather's  lap  with  flushed  face  and 
hot,  overworked  heart.  The  strain  was  beginning  to 
tell,  and  the  old  man  grew  uneasy,  as  he  watched  the 


THE  THEFT  OF  A  CHILDHOOD        273 

flush  on  her  cheeks  and  the  unusual  brightness  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Better  give  her  five  draps  of  tub'bentine  an'  put  her 
to  bed,"  said  Mrs.  Watts  as  she  came  by.  "  She'll  be 
fittin'  an'  good  by  mornin'." 

The  old  man  did  not  reply  —  he  only  sang  a  low  mel 
ody  and  smoothed  her  forehead. 

.It  was  ten  o'clock,  and  now  she  lay  on  the  old  man's 
lap  asleep  from  exhaustion.  A  cricket  began  chirping 
in  the  fire-place,  under  a  hearth-brick. 

"  What's  that,  Pap?  "  asked  Shiloh  half  asleep. 

"  That's  a  cricket,  Pet,"  smiled  the  old  man. 

She  listened  a  while  with  a  half -amused  smile  on  her 
lips: 

"  Well,  don't  you  think  his  spindles  need  oilin', 
Pap?" 

There  was  little  but  machinery  in  her  life. 

Another  hour  found  the  old  man  tired,  but  still  hold 
ing  the  sleeping  child  in  his  arms : 

"  If  I  move  her  she'll  wake,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Po> 
little  Shiloh." 

He  was  silent  a  while  and  thoughtful.  Then  he  looked 
up  at  the  shadow  of  Sand  Mountain,  falling  half  way 
down  the  valley  in  the  moonlight. 

"  The  shadow  of  that  mountain  across  that  valley," 
he  said,  "  is  like  the  shadow  of  the  greed  of  gain  across 
the  world.  An'  why  should  it  be?  What  is  it  worth? 
Who  is  happier  for  any  money  more  than  he  needs  in 
life?" 

He  bowed  his  head  over  the  sleeping  Shiloh. 

"  Oh,  God,"  he  prayed  — "  You,  who  made  the  world 
18 


274         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

an'  said  it  might  have  a  childhood  —  remember  what  it 
means  to  have  it  filched  away.  It's  like  stealin'  the  bud 
from  the  rose-bush,  the  dew  from  the  grass,  hope  from 
the  heart  of  man.  Take  our  manhood  —  O  God  —  it 
is  strong  enough  to  stand  it  —  an'  it  has  been  took  from 
many  a  strong  man  who  has  died  with  a  smile  on  his  lips. 
Take  our  old  age  —  O  God  —  for  it's  jus'  a  memory  of 
Has  Beens.  But  let  them  not  steal  that  from  any  life 
that  makes  all  the  res'  of  it  beautiful  with  dreams  of  it. 
If,  by  some  inscrutable  law  which  we  po'  things  can't  see 
through,  stealin'  in  traffic  an'  trade  must  go  on  in  the 
world,  O  God,  let  them  steal  our  purses,  but  not  our 
childhood.  Amen." 


CHAPTER  XIV 


r  1 1  HE  whistle  of  the  mill  had  scarcely  awakened 
Cottontown  the  next  morning  before  Archie 
B.,  hatless  and  full  of  excitement,  came  over  to 
the  Bishop  with  a  message  from  his  mother.  No  one 
was  astir  but  Mrs.  Watts,  and  she  was  sweeping  vigor 
ously. 

"  What's  the  matter.  Archie  B.  ?  "  asked  the  old  man 
when  he  came  out. 

"  Uncle  Dave  Dickey  is  dyin'  an'  maw  told  me  to  run 
over  an'  tell  you  to  hurry  quick  if  you  wanted  to  see  the 
old  man  die." 

"Oh,  Uncle  Dave  is  dyin',  is  he?  Well,  we'll  go, 
Archie  B.,  just  as  soon  as  Ben  Butler  can  be  hooked  up. 
I've  got  some  more  calls  to  make  anyway." 

Ben  Butler  was  ready  by  the  time  the  children  started 
for  the  mill.  Little  Shiloh  brought  up  the  rear,  her  tiny 
legs  bravely  following  the  others.  Archie  B.  looked  at 
them  curiously  as  the  small  wage-earners  filed  past  him 
for  work. 

"  Say,  you  little  mill-birds,"  he  said,  "  why  don't  you 
chaps  come  over  to  see  me  sometimes  an'  lem'me  show 
you  things  outdoors  that's  made  for  boys  an'  girls  ?  " 

"  Is  they  very  pretty  ?  "  asked  Shiloh,  stopping  and 
all  ears  at  once.  "Oh,  tell  me  'bout  'em !  I  am  jus* 

275 


276        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

hungry  to  see  'em.  I've  learned  the  names  of  three  birds 
myself  an'  I  saw  a  gray  squirrel  onct." 

"Three  birds  —  shucks!"  said  Archie  B.,  "I  could 
sho'  you  forty,  but  I'll  tell  you  what's  crackin'  good  fun 
an'  it'll  test  you  mor'n  knowin'  the  birds  —  that's  easy. 
But  the  hard  thing  is  to  find  their  nests  an'  then  to  tell 
by  the  eggs  what  bird  it  is.  That's  the  cracker- jack 
trick." 

Shiloh's  eyes  opened  wide :  "  Why,  do  they  lay  eggs, 
Archie  B.?  Real  eggs  like  a  hen  or  a  duck?  " 

Archie  B.  laughed:  "Well,  I  should  say  so  —  an' 
away  up  in  a  tree,  an'  in  the  funniest  little  baskets  you 
ever  saw.  An'  some  of  the  eggs  is  white,  an'  some  blue, 
and  some  green,  an,  some  speckled  an'  oh,  so  many  kind. 
But  I'll  tell  you  a  thing  right  now  that'll  help  you  to 
remember  —  mighty  nigh  every  bird  lays  a  egg  that's 
mighty  nigh  like  the  bird  herself.  The  cat  bird's  eggs 
is  sorter  blue  —  an'  the  woodpecker's  is  white,  like  his 
wing,  an'  the  thrasher's  is  mottled  like  his  breast." 

Ben  Butler  was  hitched  to  the  old  buggy  and  the 
Bishop  drove  up.  He  had  a  bunch  of  wild  flowers  for 
Shiloh  and  he  gave  it  with  a  kiss.  "  Run  along  now, 
Baby,  an'  I'll  fetch  you  another  when  I  come  back." 

They  saw  her  run  to  catch  up  with  the  others  and 
breathlessly  tell  them  of  the  wonderful  things  Archie  B. 
had  related.  And  all  through  the  day,  in  the  dust  and 
the  lint,  the  thunder  and  rumble  of  the  Steam  Thing's 
war,  Shiloh  saw  white  and  blue  and  mottled  eggs,  in  tiny 
baskets,  with  homes  up  in  the  trees  where  the  winds  rocked 
the  cradles  when  the  little  birds  came;  and  young  as 
she  was,  into  her  head  there  crept  a  thought  that  some- 


UNCLE  DAVE'S  WILL  277 

thing  was  wrong  in  man's  management  of  things  when 
little  birds  were  free  and  little  children  must  work. 

As  she  ran  off  she  waved  her  hand  to  her  grandfather. 

"  I'll  fetch  you  another  bunch  when  I  come  back, 
Pet,"  he  called. 

"  You'd  better  fetch  her  somethin'  to  eat,  instead  of 
prayin'  aroun'  with  old  fools  that's  always  dyin',"  called 
Mrs.  Watts  to  him  from  the  kitchen  door  where  she  was 
scrubbing  the  cans. 

"  The  Lord  will  always  provide,  Tabitha  —  he  has 
never  failed  me  yet." 

She  watched  him  drive  slowly  over  the  hill :  "  That 
means  I  had  better  get  a  move  on  me  an'  go  to  furagin'," 
she  said  to  herself. 

"  Hillard  Watts  has  mistuck  me  for  the  Almighty 
mighty  nigh  all  his  life.  It's  about  time  the  black 
berries  was  a  gittin'  ripe  anyway." 

The  Bishop  found  the  greatest  distress  at  Uncle  Dave 
Dickey's.  Aunt  Sally  Dickey,  his  wife,  was  weeping 
on  the  front  porch,  while  Tilly,  Uncle  Dave's  pretty 
grown  daughter,  her  calico  dress  tucked  up  for  the  morn 
ing's  work,  showing  feet  and  ankles  that  would  grace  a 
duchess,  was  lamenting  loudly  on  the  back  porch.  A 
coon  dog  of  uncertain  lineage  and  intellectual  develop 
ment,  tuned  to  the  howling  pitch,  doubtless,  by  the  music 
of  Tilly's  sobs,  joined  in  the  chorus. 

"  Po'  Davy  is  gwine  —  he's  most  gone  —  boo  —  boo 
—  oo  !"  sobbed  Aunt  Sally. 

"Pap  —  Pap  —  don't  leave  us,"  echoed  Tilly  from 
the  back  porch. 

"  Ow  —  wow  —  oo  —  oo,"  howled  the  dog. 


278         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

The  Bishop  went  in  sad  and  subdued,  expecting  to 
find  Uncle  Davy  breathing  his  last.  Instead,  he  found 
him  sitting  bolt  upright  in  bed,  and  sobbing  even  more 
lustily  than  his  wife  and  daughter.  He  stretched  out 
his  hands  pitiably  as  his  old  friend  went  in. 

"  Most  gone  "—  he  sobbed  — "  Hillard  —  the  old 
man  is  most  gone.  You've  come  jus'  in  time  to  see  your 
old  friend  breathe  his  las'  an'  to  witness  his  will,"  and 
he  broke  out  sobbing  afresh,  in  which  Aunt  Sally  and 
Tilly  and  the  dog,  all  of  whom  had  followed  the  Bishop 
in,  joined. 

The  Bishop  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance.  Then 
he  broke  into  a  smile  that  gradually  settled  all  over  his 
kindly  face. 

"  Look  aheah,  Davy,  you  ain't  no  mo'  dyin'  than 
I  am." 

"  What  —  what?  "  said  Uncle  Davy  between  his  sobs 
— -"  I  ain't  a  dyin',  Hillard?  Oh,  yes,  I  be.  Sally  and 
Tilly  both  say  so." 

"  Now,  look  aheah,  Davy,  it  ain't  so.  I've  seed  hun 
dreds  die  —  yes,  hundreds  —  strong  men,  babes  — 
women  and  little  tots,  strong  ones,  and  weak  and  frail 
ones,  given  to  tears,  but  I've  never  seed  one  die  yet 
sheddin'  a  single  tear,  let  alone  blubberin'  like  a  calf. 
It's  agin  nature.  Davy,  dyin'  men  don't  weep.  It's  al 
ways  all  right  with  'em.  It's  the  one  moment  of  all  their 
lives,  often,  that  everything  is  all  right,  seein'  as  they 
do,  that  all  life  has  been  a  dream  —  all  back  of  death 
jes'  a  beginnin'  to  live,  an'  so  they  die  contented.  No  — 
no,  Davy,  if  they've  lived  right  they  want  to  smile,  not 
weep." 


UNCLE  DAVE'S  WILL  279 

There  was  an  immediate  snuffing  and  drying  of  tears 
all  around.  Uncle  Davy  looked  sheepishly  at  Aunt 
Sally,  she  passed  the  same  look  on  to  Tilly,  and  Tilly 
passed  it  to  the  coon  dog.  Here  it  rested  in  its  birth 
place. 

"  Come  to  think  of  it,  Hillard,"  said  Uncle  Dave  after 
a  while,  "  but  I  believe  you  are  right." 

Tilly  came  back,  and  she  and  Aunt  Sally  nodded  their 
heads :  "  Yes,  Hillard,  you're  right,"  went  on  Uncle 
Davy,  "  Tilly  and  Sally  both  say  so." 

"  How  come  you  to  think  you  was  dyin'  anyway  ?  " 
asked  the  Bishop. 

"  Hillard, —  you  kno',  Hillard  —  the  old  man's  been 
thinkin'  he'd  go  sudden-like  a  long  time."  He  raised  his 
eyes  to  heaven :  "  Yes,  Lord,  thy  servant  is  even  ready." 

"  Last  night  I  felt  a  kind  o'  flutterin'  of  my  heart  an' 
I  cudn't  breathe  good.     I  thought  it  was  death  —  death, 
-Hillard,  on  the  back  of  his  pale  horse.     Tilly  and 
Sally  both  thought  so." 

The  Bishop  laughed.  "  That  warn't  death  on  the 
back  of  a  horse,  Davy  —  that  was  jus'  wind  on  the  stom 
ach  of  an  ass." 

This  was  too  much  for  Uncle  Davy  —  especially  when 
Tilly  and  Sally  made  it  unanimous  by  giggling  out 
right. 

'  You  et  cabbages  for  supper,"  said  the  Bishop. 

Uncle  Davy  nodded,  sheepishly. 

"  Then  I  sed  my  will  an'  Tilly  writ  it  down  an',  oh, 
Hillard,  I  am  so  anxious  to  hear  you  read  it.  I  wanter 
see  how  it'ull  feel  fer  a  man  to  have  his  will  read  after 
he  is  dead  —  an' — an'  how  his  widder  takes  it,"  he 


280         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

added,  glancing  at  Aunt  Sally — "an'  his  friends.  I 
wanter  heah  you  read  it,  Hillard,  in  that  deep  organ 
way  of  yours, —  like  you  read  the  Old  Testament.  In 
that  In-the-Beginmng-God-Created-the-Heaven-an'-the- 
Earth-Kinder  voice !  Drap  your  voice  low  like  a  organ, 
an'  let  the  old  man  hear  it  befo'  he  goes.  I  fixed  it  when 
I  thought  I  was  a-dyin'." 

"  Makin'  yo'  will  ain't  no  sign  you're  dyin',"  said  the 
Bishop. 

"  But  Tilly  an'  Aunt  Sally  both  said  so,"  said  Uncle 
Davy,  earnestly. 

"  All  yo'  needs,"  said  the  Bishop  going  to  his  saddle 
bags,  "  is  a  good  straight  whiskey.  I  keep  a  little  —  a 
very,  very  little  bit  in  my  saddle  bags,  for  jes'  sech  occa 
sions  as  these.  It's  twenty  years  old,"  he  said,  "  an' 
genuwine  old  Lincoln  County.  I  keep  it  only  for  folks 
that's  dyin',"  he  winked,  "  an'  sometimes,  Davy,  I  feel 
mighty  like  I'm  about  to  pass  away  myself." 

He  poured  out  a  very  small  medicine  glass  of  it,  shin 
ing  and  shimmering  in  the  morning  light  like  a  big 
ruby, —  and  handed  it  to  Uncle  Davy. 

"  You  say  that's  twenty  years  old,  Hillard  ?  "  asked 
Uncle  Davy  as  he  wiped  his  mouth  on  the  back  of  his 
hand  and  again  held  the  little  glass  out  entreatingly : 

"  Hillard,  ain't  it  mighty  small  for  its  age  — 'pears 
to  me  it  orter  be  twins  to  make  it  the  regulation  size. 
Don't  you  think  so?  " 

The  Bishop  gave  him  another  and  took  one  himself, 
remarking  as  he  did  so,  "  I  was  pow'ful  flustrated  when  I 
heard  you  was  dyin'  again,  Davy,  an'  I  need  it  to  stiddy 
my  nerves.  Now,  fetch  out  yo'  will,  Davy,"  he  added. 


UNCLE  DAVE'S  WILL  281 

As  he  took  it  the  Bishop  adjusted  his  big  spectacles, 
buttoned  up  his  coat,  and  drew  himself  up  as  he  did  in 
the  pulpit.  He  blew  his  nose  to  get  a  clear  sonorous 
note : 

"  I've  got  a  verse  of  poetry  that  I  allers  tunes  my 
voice  up  to  the  occasion  with,"  he  said.  "  I  do  it  sorter 
like  a  fiddle/  tunes  up  his  fiddle.  Its  a  great  poem  an' 
I'll  put  it  agin  anything  in  the  Queen's  English  for  real 
thunder  music  an'  a  sentiment  that  Shakespeare  an'  Mil 
ton  nor  none  of  'em  cud  a  writ.  It  stirs  me  like  our  park 
of  artillery  at  Shiloh,  an'  it  puts  me  in  tune  with  the 
great  dead  of  all  eternity.  It  makes  me  think  of  Cap'n 
Tom  an'  Albert  Sidney  Johnston." 

Then  in  a  deep  voice  he  repeated : 

"  '  The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo  — 
No  more  on  earth's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping  ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread 

And  glory  guards  with  solemn  sound 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead.'  " 

"  Now  give  me  yo'  will." 

Uncle  Davy  sat  up  solemnly,  keenly,  expectantly. 
Tilly  and  Aunt  Sally  sat  subdued  and  sad,  with  that  air 
of  solemn  importance  and  respect  which  might  be  ex 
pected  of  a  dutiful  daughter  and  bereaved  widow  on 
such  an  occasion.  It  was  too  solemn  for  Uncle  Davy. 
He  began  to  whimper  again :  "  I  didn't  think  I  would 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

ever  live  to  see  the  day  when  I'd  hear  my  own  will  read 
after  I  was  dead,  an'  Hillard  a-readin'  it  around  my 
own  corpse.  Its  Tilly's  handwrite,"  he  explained,  as 
he  saw  the  Bishop  scrutinizing  the  testament  closely. 
"  I  can't  write,  as  you  kno',  but  I've  made  my  mark  at 
the  end,  an'  I  want  you  to  witness  it." 

Pitching  his  voice  to  organ  depths,  the  Bishop  read : 

"  '  In  the  name  of  God,  amen:     I,  Davy  Dickey,  of 

the  County  of  -     ,   and  State  of  Alabama-,  being 

of  sound  mind  and  retentive  memory,  but  knowing  the 
uncertainty  of  life  and  the  certainty  of  death,  do  hereby 
make  and  ordain  this  —  my  last  will  and  test  amen  - 

Uncle  Davy  had  lain  back,  his  eyes  closed,  his  hands 
clasped,  drinking  it  all  in. 

"  O,  Hillard  —  Hillard,  read  it  agin  —  it  makes  me 
so  happy !  It  does  me  so  much  good.  It  sounds  like 
the  first  chapter  of  Genesis,  an'  Daniel  Webster's  reply 
to  Hayne  an'  the  19th  Psalm  all  put  together." 

The  Bishop  read  it  again. 

"  So  happy  —  so  happy  -  "  sobbed  Uncle  Davy,  in 
which  Aunt  Sally  and  Tilly  and  the  coon  dog  joined. 

"  *  First,9  "  read  on  the  Bishop,  following  closely 
Tilly's  pretty  penmanship ;  "  '  Concerning  that  part  of 
me  called  the  soul  or  spirit  which  is  immortal,  I  will  it 
bach  again  to  its  Maker,  leaving  it  to  Him  to  do  as  He 
pleases  with^  without  asking  any  impertinent  questions 
or  making  any  fool  requests.9  ' 

The  Bishop  paused.  "  That's  a  good  idea,  Davy  — 
Givin'  it  back  to  its  Maker  without  asking  any  im- 
pert'n'ent  questions." 

Second,9  "  read  the  Bishop,  "  '  7  wills  to  be  buried 


€(   ( 


UNCLE  DAVE'S  WILL  283 

alongside  of  Dan'l  Tubbs,  on  the  Chestnut  Knob,  the 
same  enclosed  with  a  rock  wall,  forever  set  aside  for  me 
an1  Dan'l  and  running  west  twenty  yards  to  a  black 
jack,  tJien  east  to  a  cedar  stump  three  rods,  then  south 
to  a  stake  twenty  yards  and  thence  west  back  to  me  an9 
Dan'l.  I  wills  the  fence  to  be  built  horse  high,  bull 
strong  and  pig  tight,  so  as  to  keep  out  t]w  Widow  Sim 
mon's  old  brindle  cow;  the  said  cow  having  pestered  us 
nigh  to  death  in  life,  I  don't  want  lier  to  worry  us  back 
to  life  after  death. 

'  ' 'Third.  All  the  rest  of  the  place  except  that  occu 
pied  as  aforesaid  by  me  an*  Dan'l,  and  consisting  of 
twenty  acres,  more  or  less,  I  will  to  go  to  my  dutiful 
wife,  Sally  Ann  Dickey,  providing,  of  course,  that  she 
do  not  marry  again.9  ' 

"  David?  "  put  in  Aunt  Sallie,  promptly,  wiping  her 
eyes,  "  I  think  that  last  thing  mout  be  left  out." 

"  Well,  I  don't  kno',"  said  Uncle  Davy  — "  you  sho'ly 
ain't  got  no  notion  of  marryin'  agin,  have  you,  Sally?  " 

"  No  —  no  — "  said  Aunt  Sallie,  thoughtfully,  "  but 
there  aint  no  tellin'  what  a  po'  widder  mout  have  to  do  if 
pushed  to  the  wall." 

"  Well,"  sagely  remarked  Uncle  Davy,  "  we'll  jes'  let 
it  stan'  as  it  is.  It's  like  a  dose  of  calomel  for  disorder 
of  the  stomach  —  if  you  need  it  it'll  cure  you,  an'  if  you 
don't  it  won't  hurt  you.  This  thing  of  old  folks  fallin' 
in  love  ain't  nothin'  but  a  disorder  of  the  stomach  any 
how." 

Aunt  Sally  again  protested  a  poor  widow  was  often 
pushed  to  the  wall  and  had  to  take  advantage  of  cir 
cumstances,  but  Uncle  Davy  told  the  Bishop  to  read  on. 


284         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

At  this  point  Tilly  got  up  and  left  the  room. 

"  *  Fourth.  I  give  and  bequeath  to  my  devoted 
daughter,  Tilly,  and  her  husband,  Charles  C.  Biggers, 
all  my  personal  property,  including  the  crib  up  in  the 
loft,  the  razor  my  grandfatlier  left  me,  the  old  mare 
and  her  colt,  the  best  bed  in  the  parlor,  and  - 

The  Bishop  stopped  and  looked  serious. 

"  Davy,  ain't  you  a  trifle  previous  in  this  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  for  a  will,"  he  said.  "  You  see  this  is  sup 
posed  to  happen  and  be  read  after  you're  dead.  You 
see  Charles  has  been  to  see  her  twice  and  writ  a  poem  on 
her  eyes." 

The  Bishop  frowned:  "You'll  have  to  watch  that 
Biggers  boy  —  he  is  a  wild  reckless  rake  an'  not  in 
Tilly's  class  in  anything." 

"  He's  pow'ful  sweet  on  Tilly,"  said  Aunt  Sallie. 

"  Has  he  asked  her  to  marry  him?  "  asked  the  Bishop 
astonished. 

«  S-S-h  —  not  yet,"  said  Uncle  Davy,  "  but  he's 
comin'  to  it  as  fast  as  a  lean  hound  to  a  meat  block. 
He's  got  the  firs'  tech  now  —  silly  an'  poetic.  After 
a  while  he'll  get  silly  an'  desperate,  an'  jes'  'fo'  he  kills 
hisse'l  Tilly'll  fix  him  all  right  an'  tie  him  up  for  life. 
The  good  Lord  makes  every  man  crazy  when  he  is  ripe 
for  matrimony,  so  he  can  mate  him  off  befo'  he  comes 
to." 

The  Bishop  shook  his  head :  "  I  am  glad  I  came 
out  here  to-day  —  if  for  nothin'  else  to  warn  you  to  let 
that  Biggers  boy  alone.  He  don't  study  nothin'  but  fast 
horses  an'  devilment." 

"  I  never  seed  a  man  have  a  wuss'r  case,"  said  Aunt 


UNCLE  DAVE'S  WILL  285 

Sally.  "  Won't  Tilly  be  proud  of  herse'f  as  the  daugh 
ter  of  Old  Judge  Biggers?  An'  me  —  jes'  think  of  me 
as  the  grandmother  of  Biggerses  —  the  riches'  an'  fines' 
family  in  the  land." 

"An'  me?  —  I'll  be  the  gran'pap  of  'em  —  won't  I, 
Sally?" 

"  You  forgit,  Davy,"  said  Aunt  Sally  —  "  this  is  yo' 
will  —  you.'ll  be  dead." 

"  I  did  forgit,"  said  Uncle  Davy  sadly  —  "  but  I'd 
sho'  love  to  live  an'  take  one  of  them  little  Biggerses  on 
my  knees  an'  think  his  gran'pap  had  bred  up  to  this. 
Me  an'  old  Judge  Biggers  —  gran'paws  of  the  same 
kids!  Now,  you  see,  Hillard,  he  met  Tilly  at  a  party 
an'  he  tuck  her  in  to  supper.  The  next  day  he  writ 
her  a  poem,  an'  I  think  its  a  pretty  good  start  on  the 
gran'pap  business." 

The  Bishop  smiled :  "  It  does  look  like  he  loves  her," 
he  added,  dryly.  "  If  I  was  the  devil  an'  wanted  to 
ketch  a  woman  I'd  write  a  poem  to  her  every  day  an'  lie 
between  heats.  Love  lives  on  lies." 

"  Now,  I've  ca'culated  them  things  out,"  said  Uncle 
Davy,  "  an'  it'll  be  this  away :  Tilly  is  as  pretty  as  a 
peach  an'  Charlie  is  gittin'  stuck  wus'n  wus'n  every  day. 
By  the  time  I  am  dead  they  will  be  married  good  a?i' 
hard.  I  am  almost  gone  as  it  is,  the  ole  man  he's  liable 
to  drap  off  any  time  —  yea,  Lord,  thy  servant  is  ready 
to  go  —  but  I  do  hope  that  the  good  master  will  let  me 
live  long  enough  to  hold  one  of  my  Biggers  grandboys 
on  my  knees." 

"  All  I've  got  to  say,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  is  jus'  to 
watch  yo'  son-in-law.  Every  son-in-law  will  stan' 


286        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

watchin'  after  the  ceremony,  but  yours  will  stan'  it  all 
the  time." 

"  *  Lastly,'  "  read  the  Bishop,  "  *  7  will*  it  that  things 
be  left  just  as  they  be  on  the  place  —  no  moving  around 
of  nothing,  especially  the  well,  it  being  eighty  foot  deep, 
and  with  good  cool  water;  and  finally  I  leave  anything 
else  I've  got,  mostly  my  good  will,  to  the  tender  mer 
cies  of  the  lawyers  and  courts.* ' 

The  Bishop  witnessed  it,  gave  Uncle  Davy  another 
toddy,  and,  after  again  cautioning  him  to  watch  young 
Biggers  closely,  rode  away. 


CHAPTER  XV 

EDWARD    CONWAY 

ACROSS  the  hill  the  old  man  rode  to  Millwood,  and 
as  he  rode  his  head  was  bent  forward  in  troubled 
thought. 

He  had  heard  that  Edward  Conway  had  come  to  the 
sorest  need  —  even  to  where  he  would  place  his  daugh 
ters  in  the  mill.  None  knew  better  than  Hilliard  Watts 
what  this  would  mean  socially  for  the  granddaughters 
of  Governor  Conway. 

Besides,  the  old  preacher  had  begun  to  hate  the  mill 
and  its  infamous  system  of  child  labor  with  a  hatred 
born  of  righteousness.  Every  month  he  saw  its  degra 
dation,  its  slavery,  its  death. 

He  preached,  he  talked  against  it.  He  began  to  be 
pointed  out  as  the  man  who  was  against  the  mill.  Omi 
nous  rumors  had  come  to  his  ears,  and  threats.  It  was 
whispered  to  him  that  he  had  better  be  silent,  and  some 
of  the  people  he  preached  to  —  some  of  those  who  had 
children  in  the  mill  and  were  supported  in  their  laziness 
by  the  life  blood  of  their  little  ones  —  these  were  his 
bitterest  enemies. 

To-day,  the  drunken  proprietor  of  Millwood  sat  in  his 
accustomed  place  on  the  front  balcony,  his  cob-pipe  in 
his  mouth  and  ruin  all  around  him. 

Like  others,  he  had  a  great  respect  for  the  Bishop  —  a 

287 


288         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

man  who  had  been  both  his  own  and  his  father's  friend. 
Often  as  a  lad  he  had  hunted,  fished,  and  trapped  with 
the  preacher-overseer,  who  lived  near  his  father's  plan 
tation.  He  had  broken  all  of  the  stubborn  colts  in  the 
overseer's  care ;  he  had  ridden  them  even  in  some  of  their 
fiercest,  hardest  races,  and  he  had  felt  the  thrill  of  vie- 
tory  at  the  wire  and  known  the  great  pride  which  comes 
to  one  who  knows  he  has  the  confidence  of  a  brave  and 
honest  man. 

The  old  trainer's  influence  over  Edward  Conway  had 
always  been  great. 

To-day,  as  he  saw  the  Bishop  ride  up,  he  thought  of 
his  boyhood  days,  and  of  Tom  Travis.  How  often  had 
they  gone  with  the  old  man  hunting  and  fishing !  How 
he  reverenced  the  memory  of  his  gentleness  and  kind 
ness! 

The  greatest  desire  of  Hilliard  Watts  had  been  to 
reform  Edward  Conway.  He  had  prayed  for  him, 
worked  for  him.  In  spite  of  his  drunkenness  the  old 
man  believed  in  him. 

"  God'll  save  him  yet,"  he  would  say.  "  I've  prayed 
for  it  an'  I  kno'  it  —  tho'  it  may  be  by  the  crushing 
of  him.  Some  men  repent  to  God's  smile,  some  to  His 
frown,  and  some  to  His  fist.  I'm  afraid  it  will  take  a 
blow  to  save  Ned,  po'  boy." 

For  Ned  was  always  a  boy  to  him. 

Conway  was  drunker  than  usual  to-day.  Things 
grew  worse  daily,  and  he  drank  deeper. 

It  is  one  of  the  strangest  curses  of  whiskey  that  as 
it  daily  drags  a  man  down,  deeper  and  deeper,  it  makes 
him  believe  he  must  cling  to  his  Red  God  the  closer. 


EDWARD  CONWAY  289 

He  met  the  old  overseer  cordially,  in  a  half  drunken 
endeavor  to  be  natural.  The  old  man  glanced  sadly  up 
at  the  bloated,  boastful  face,  and  thought  of  the  beau 
tiful  one  it  once  had  been.  He  thought  of  the  fine,  bril 
liant  mind  and  marveled  that  with  ten  years  of  drunken 
ness  it  still  retained  its  strength.  And  the  Bishop  re 
membered  that  in  spite  of  his  drinking  no  one  had  ever 
accused  Edward  Conway  of  doing  a  dishonorable  thing. 
"  How  strong  is  that  man's  character  rooted  for  good," 
he  thought,  "  when  even  whiskey  cannot  undermine  it." 

"  Where  are  the  babies,  Ned  ?  "  he  asked,  after  he  was 
seated. 

The  father  called  and  the  two  girls  came  running  out. 

The  old  man  was  struck  with  the  developing  beauty  of 
Helen  —  he  had  not  seen  her  for  a  year.  Lily  hunted 
in  his  pockets  for  candy,  as  she  had  always  done  —  and 
found  it  —  and  Helen  —  though  eighteen  and  grown, 
sat  thoughtful  and  sad,  on  a  stool  by  his  side. 

The  old  man  did  not  wonder  at  her  sadness. 

"  Ned,"  he  said,  as  he  stroked  Helen's  hand,  "  this 
girl  looks  mo'  like  her  mother  every  day,  an'  you  know 
she  was  the  handsomest  woman  that  ever  was  raised  in 
the  Valley." 

Conway  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth.  He  dropped 
his  head  and  looked  toward  the  distant  blue  hills.  What 
Memory  and  Remorse  were  whispering  to  him  the  old 
man  could  only  guess.  Silently  —  nodding  —  he  sat 
and  looked  and  spoke  not. 

46  She  ain't  gwineter  be  a  bit  prettier  than  my  little 
Lil,  when  she  gits  grown,"  said  a  voice  behind  them. 

It  was  Mammy  Maria  who,  as  usual,  having  dressed 

19 


290         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

the  little  girl  as  daintily  as  she  could,  stood  nearby  to 
see  that  no  harm  befell  her. 

"  Wai,  Aunt  Maria,"  drawled  the  Bishop.  "  Whar 
did  you  come  from?  I  declar'  it  looks  like  ole  times  to 
see  you  agin'." 

There  is  something  peculiar  in  this,  that  those  un 
lettered,  having  once  associated  closely  with  negroes, 
drop  into  their  dialect  when  speaking  to  them.  Perhaps 
it  may  be  explained  by  some  law  of  language  —  some 
rule  of  euphony,  now  unknown.  The  Bishop  uncon 
sciously  did  this ;  and,  from  dialect  alone,  one  could  not 
tell  which  was  white  and  which  was  black. 

Aunt  Maria  had  always  been  very  religious,  and  the 
Bishop  arose  and  shook  her  hand  gravely. 

"  Pow'ful  glad  to  see  you,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"  How's  religion  —  Aunt  Maria,"  he  asked. 

"  Mighty  po'ly  —  mighty  po'ly  "  -  she  sighed.  "  It 
looks  lak  the  Cedars  of  Lebanon  is  dwarfed  to  the  scrub 
pine.  The  old  time  religin'  is  passin'  away,  an'  I'm 
all  that's  lef  of  Zion." 

The  Bishop  smiled. 

"  Yes,  you  see  befo'  you  all  that's  lef  of  Zion.     I'se 
been  longin'   to  see  you  an'   have  a  talk  with   you - 
thinkin'  maybe  you  cud  he'p  me  out.     You  kno'  me  and 
you  is  Hard-shells." 

The  Bishop  nodded. 

"  We  'blieves  in  repentince  an'  fallin'  from  grace,  an* 
backslidin'  an'  all  that,"  she  went  on.  "  Well,  they've 
lopped  them  good  ole  things  off  one  by  one  an'  they 
don't  'bleeve  in  nothin'  now  but  jes'  jin'in'.  They  think 
jes'  jin'in'  fixes  'em  —  that  it  gives  'em  a  free  pass  into 


EDWARD  CONWAY  291 

the  pearly  gates.  So  of  all  ole  Zion  Church  up  at  the 
hill,  sah,  they've  jes'  jined  an'  jined  around,  fust  one 
church  an'  then  another,  till  of  all  the  ole  Zion  Church 
that  me  an'  you  loved  so  much,  they  ain't  none  lef  but 
Parson  Shadrack,  the  preacher,  sister  Tilly,  an'  me  — 
We  wus  Zion." 

"  Pow'ful  bad,  pow'ful  bad,"  said  the  Bishop  — «  and 
you  three  made  Zion." 

"  We  wus,"  said  Aunt  Maria,  sadly  — "  but  now  there 
ain't  but  one  lef.  Pm  Zion.  It's  t'arrable,  but  it's 
true.  As  it  wus  in  the  days  of  Lot,  so  it  is  to-day  in 
Sodom." 

"  Why,  how  did  that  happen?  "  asked  the  Bishop. 
Aunt  Maria's  eyes  kindled :     "  It's  t'arrable,  but  it's 
true  —  last  week  Parson  Shadrack  deserts  his  own  wife 
an'  runs  off  with  Sis  Tilly.     It  looked  lak  he  mouter 
tuck  me,  too,  an'  kept  the  fold  together  as  Abraham  did 
when   he  went  into  the  Land  of  the  Philistines.     But 
thank  God,  if  I  am  all  that's  lef,  one  thing  is  mighty 
consolin' —  I  can  have  a  meetin'  of  Zion  wherever  I  is. 
If  I  sets  down  in  a  cheer  to  meditate  I  sez    to  myself  — 
'  Be  keerful,  Maria,  for  the  church  is  in  session.'     When 
I  drink,  it  is  communion  —  when  I  bathes,  it  is  bap 
tism,  when  I  walks,  I  sez   to  myself :     '  Keep  a  straight 
gait,  Maria,  you  are  carryin'  the  tabbernackle   of  al 
goodness.'     Aunt   Tilly    got   the    preacher,    but   thank 
God,  I  got  Zion." 

"  But  I  mus'   go.     Come  on,  Lily,"  she  said  to  the 
little  girl, —  "  let  ole  Zion  fix  up  yo'  curls." 

She  took  her  charge  and  curtsied  out,  and  the  Bishop 
knew  she  would  die  either  for  Zion  or  the  little  girl. 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWM 

The  old  man  sat  thinking  —  Helen  had  gone  in  and 
was  practising  a  love  song. 

"  Ned,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  I  tell  you  a  man  ain't 
altogether  friendless  when  he's  got  in  his  home  a  crea 
ture  as  faithful  as  she  is.  She'd  die  for  that  child. 
That  one  ole  faithful  'oman  makes  me  feel  like  liftin' 
my  hat  to  the  whole  nigger  race.  I  tell  you  when  I  get 
to  heaven  an'  fail  to  see  ole  Mammy  settin'  around  the 
River  of  Life,  I'll  think  somethin'  is  wrong." 

The  Bishop  was  silent  a  while,  and  then  he  asked: 
"  Ned,  it  can't  be  true  that  you  are  goin'  to  put  them 
girls  in  the  factory  ?  " 

"  It's  all  I  can  do,"  said  Conway,  surlily  —  "  I'll  be 
turned  out  of  home  soon  —  out  in  the  public  road. 
Everything  I've  got  has  been  sold.  I've  no'whcre  to  go, 
an'  but  for  Carpenter's  offer  from  the  Company  of  the 
cottage,  I'd  not  have  even  a  home  for  them.  The  only 
condition  I  could  go  on  was  that  — 

"  That  you  sell  your  daughters  into  slavery,"  said 
the  Bishop  quietly. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  think  it  hurts  your's,"  said  Con- 
way  bluntly. 

"  If  I  had  my  way  they'd  not  work  there  a  day," — 
the  old  man  replied  hastily.  "  But  its  different  with 
me,  an'  you  know  it.  My  people  take  to  it  naturally. 
I  am  a  po'  white,  an  underling  by  breedin'  an'  birth,  an' 
if  my  people  build,  they  must  build  up.  But  you  — 
you  are  tearing  down  when  you  do  that.  Po'  as  I  am, 
I'd  rather  starve  than  to  see  little  children  worked  to 
death  in  that  trap,  but  Tabitha  sees  it  different,  and 
she  is  the  one  bein'  in  the  world  I  don't  cross  —  the 


EDWARD  CONWAY  293 

General  " —  he  smiled  — "  she  don't  understand,  she's 
built  different." 

He  was  silent  a  while.  Then  he  said :  "  I  am  old  an' 
have  nothin'." 

He  stopped  again.  He  did  not  say  that  what  little 
he  did  have  went  to  the  poor  and  the  sorrow-stricken  of 
the  neighborhood.  He  did  not  add  that  in  his  home, 
besides  its  poverty  and  hardness,  he  faced  daily  the 
problem  of  far  greater  things. 

"  If  I  only  had  my  health,"  said  Conway,  "  but  this 
cursed  rheumatism !  " 

"  Some  of  us  has  been  so  used  to  benefits,"  said  the 
old  man,  "  that  it's  only  when  they've  withdrawn  that 
we  miss  'em.  We're  always  ready  to  blame  God  for  what 
we  lose,  but  fail  to  remember  what  He  gives  us.  We 
kno'  what  diseases  an'  misfortunes  WTC  have  had,  we  never 
know,  by  God's  mercy,  what  we  have  escaped.  Death 
is  around  us  daily  —  in  the  very  air  we  breathe  —  and 
yet  we  live. 

"  I'll  talk  square  with  you,  Ned  —  though  you  may 
hate  me  for  it.  Every  misfortune  you  have,  from 
I'heumatism  to  loss  of  property,  is  due  to  whiskey. 
Let  it  alone.  Be  a  man.  There's  greatness  in  you 
yet.  You'd  have  no  chance  if  you  was  a  scrub.  But 
no  man  can  estimate  the  value  of  good  blood  in  man 
or  boss  —  its  the  unknown  quantity  that  makes  him 
ready  to  come  again.  For  do  the  best  we  can,  at  last 
we're  in  the  hands  of  God  an'  our  pedigree." 

"  Do  you  think  I've  got  a  show  yet?  "  asked  Conway, 
looking  up. 

"  Do  I?     Every  man  has  a  chance  who  trusts  God  an' 


294         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

prays.  You  can't  down  that  man.  Your  people  were 
men  —  brave  an'  honest  men.  They  conquered  them 
selves  first,  an'  all  this  fair  valley  afterwards.  They 
overcame  greater  obstacles  than  you  ever  had,  an'  in 
bringin'  you  into  the  world  they  gave  you,  by  the  very 
laws  of  heredity,  the  power  to  overcome,  too.  Why  do 
you  grasp  at  the  shadow  an'  shy  at  the  form?  You 
keep  these  hound  dogs  here,  because  your  father  rode 
to  hounds.  But  he  rode  for  pleasure,  in  the  lap  of 
plenty,  that  he  had  made  by  hard  licks.  You  ride, 
from  habit,  in  poverty.  He  rode  his  hobbies  —  it  was 
all  right.  Your  hobbies  ride  you.  He  fought  chickens 
for  an  hour's  pastime,  in  the  fullness  of  the  red  blood 
of  life.  You  fight  them  for  the  blood  of  the  thing  — 
as  the  bred-out  Spaniards  fight  bulls.  He  took  his 
cocktails  as  a  gentleman  —  you  as  a  drunkard." 

The  old  man  was  excited,  indignant,  fearless. 

Conway  looked  at  him  in  wonder  akin  to  fear.  Even 
as  the  idolators  of  old  looked  at  Jeremiah  and  Isaiah. 

"  Why  —  why  is  it  "  -  went  on  the  old  man  earnestly, 
rising  and  shaking  his  finger  ominously  — "  that  two 
generations  of  cocktails  will  breed  cock-fighters,  and  two 
generations  of  whiskey  will  breed  a  scrub?  Do  you 
know  where  you'll  end?  In  bein'  a  scrub?  No,  no  — 
you  will  be  dead  an'  the  worms  will  have  et  you  —  but  " 
—  he  pointed  to  the  house  — "  you  are  fixin'  to  make 
scrubs  of  them  —  they  will  breed  back. 

"  Go  back  to  the  plough  —  quit  this  whiskey  and  be 
the  man  your  people  was.  If  you  do  not,"  he  said  ris 
ing  to  go  — "  God  will  crush  you  —  not  kill  you,  but 
mangle  you  in  the  killin'." 


EDWARD  CONWAY  295 

"  He  has  done  that  already,"  said  Conway  bitterly. 
"  He  has  turned  the  back  of  His  hand  on  me." 

"  Not  yet  "—  said  the  Bishop  — "  but  it  will  fall  and 
fall  there."  He  pointed  to  Helen,  whose  queenly  head 
could  be  seen  in  the  old  parlor  as  she  trummed  out  a 
sad  love  song. 

Conway  blanched  and  his  hand  shook.  He  felt  a 
nameless  fear  —  never  felt  before.  He  looked  around, 
but  the  old  man  was  gone.  Afterwards,  as  he  remem 
bered  that  afternoon,  he  wondered  if,  grown  as  the  old 
man  had  in  faith,  God  had  not  also  endowed  him  with 
the  gift  of  prophecy. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


AN  HOUR  afterward,  the  old  nurse  found  Helen 
at  the  piano,  her  head  bowed  low  over  the  old 
yellow  keys.  "  It's  gittin'  t'wards  dinner  time, 
chile,"  she  said  tenderly,  "  an'  time  I  was  dressin'  my 
queen  gal  for  dinner  an  sendin'  her  out  to  get  roses  in 
her  cheeks." 

"  Oh,  Mammy,  don't  —  don't  dress  me  that  way  any 
more.  I  am  —  I  am  to  be  —  after  this  —  just  a  mill 
girl,  you  know  ?  " 

There  was  a  sob  and  her  head  sank  lower  over  the 
piano. 

"  You  may  be  for  a  while,  but  you'll  always  be  a 
Conway  " —  and  the  old  woman  struck  an  attitude  with 
her  arms  akimbo  and  stood  looking  at  the  portraits 
which  hung  on  the  parlor  wall. 

"  That  —  that  —  makes  it  worse,  Mammy."  She 
wiped  away  her  tears  and  stood  up,  and  her  eyes,  took 
on  a  look  Aunt  Maria  had  not  seen  since  the  old  Gov 
ernor  had  died.  She  thought  of  ghosts  and  grew  ner 
vous  before  it. 

"  If  my  father  sends  me  to  work  in  that  place  —  if 
he  does  —  "  she  cried  with  flaming  eyes  — "  I  shall  feel 
that  I  am  disgraced.  I  cannot  hold  my  head  up  again. 
Then  you  need  not  be  surprised  at  anything  I  do." 

296 


HELEN'S  DESPAIR  297 

"  It  ain't  registered  that  you're  gwine  there  yet," 
and  Mammy  Maria  stroked  her  head.  "  But  if  you 
does  —  it  won't  make  no  difference  whar  you  are  nor 
what  you  have  to  do,  you'll  always  be  a  Conway  an'  a 
lady." 

An  hour  afterwards,  dressed  as  only  Mammy  Maria 
could  dress  her,  Helen  had  walked  out  again  to  the  rock 
under  the  wild  grape  vine. 

How  sweet  and  peaceful  it  was,  and  yet  how  changed 
since  but  a  short  time  ago  she  had  sat  there  watching 
for  Harry! 

"  Harry  "  -  she  pulled  out  the  crumpled,  tear-stained 
note  from  her  bosom  and  read  it  again.  And  the  read 
ing  surprised  her.  She  expected  to  weep,  but  instead 
when  she  had  finished  she  sat  straight  up  on  the  mossy 
rock  and  from  her  eyes  gleamed  again  the  light  before 
which  the  political  enemies  of  the  old  dead  Governor 
had  so  often  quailed. 

Nor  did  it  change  in  intensity,  when,  at  the  sound  of 
wheels  and  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  she  instinctively  dropped 
down  on  the  moss  behind  the  rock  and  saw  through  the 
grape  leaves  one  of  Richard  Travis's  horses,  steaming 
hot,  and  stepping, —  right  up  to  its  limit  —  a  clipping 
gait  down  the  road. 

She  had  dropped  instinctively  because  she  guessed  it 
was  Harry.  And  instinctively,  too,  she  knew  the  girl 
with  the  loud  boisterous  laugh  beside  him  wras  Nellie. 

The  buggy  was  wheeled  so  rapidly  past  that  she 
heard  only  broken  notes  of  laughter  and  talk.  Then 
she  sat  again  upon  her  rock,  with  the  deep  flush  in  her 
eyes,  and  said: 


298         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  I   hate  —  him  —  I  hate  him  —  and  oh  —  to  think 

She  tore  his  note  into  fragments,  twisted  and  rolled 
them  into  a  ball  and  shot  it,  as  a  marble,  into  the  gulch 
below. 

Then,  suddenly  she  remembered,  and  reaching  over 
she  looked  into  a  scarred  crevice  in  the  rock.  Twice 
that  summer  had  Clay  Westmore  left  her  a  quaint  love 
note  in  this  little  rock-lined  post-office.  Quaint  indeed, 
and  they  made  her  smile,  for  they  had  been  queer  mix 
tures  of  geology  and  love.  But  they  were  honest  — 
and  they  had  made  her  flush  despite  the  fact  that  she  did 
not  love  him. 

Still  she  would  read  them  two  or  three  times  and  sigh 
and  say :  "  Poor  Clay  -  "  after  every  reading. 

"  Surely  there  will  be  one  this  afternoon,"  she  thought 
as  she  peeped  over. 

But  there  was  not,  and  it  surprised  her  to  know  how 
much  she  was  disappointed. 

"  Even  Clay  has  forgotten  me,"  she  said  as  she  arose 
hastily  to  go. 

A  big  sob  sprang  up  into  her  throat  and  the  Conway 
light  of  defiance,  that  had  blazed  but  a  few  moments 
before  in  her  eyes,  died  in  the  depths  of  the  cloud  of 
tears  which  poured  between  it  and  the  open. 

A  cruel,  dangerous  mood  came  over  her.  It  enveloped 
her  soul  in  its  sombre  hues  and  the  steel  of  it  struck 
deep. 

She  scarcely  remembered  her  dead  mother  —  only 
her  eyes.  But  when  these  moods  came  upon  Helen 
Conway  —  and  her  life  had  been  one  wherein  they  had 


HELEN'S  DESPAIR 

fallen  often  —  the  memory  of  her  mother's  eyes  carne  to 
her  and  stood  out  in  the  air  before  her,  and  they  were 
sombre  and  sad,  and  full,  too,  of  the  bitterness  of  hopes 
unfulfilled. 

All  her  life  she  had  fought  these  moods  when  they 
came.  But  now  —  now  she  yielded  to  the  subtle  charm 
of  them  —  the  wild  pleasure  of  their  very  sinfulness. 

"  And  why  not,"  she  cried  to  herself  when  the  con 
sciousness  of  it  came  over  her,  and  like  a  morphine  fiend 
carrying  the  drug  to  his  lips,  she  knew  that  she  also 
was  pressing  there  the  solace  of  her  misery. 

"  Why  should  I  not  dissipate  in  the  misery  of  it, 
since  so  much  of  it  has  fallen  upon  me  at  once? 

"Mother?  —  I  never  knew  one  —  only  the  eyes  of 
one,  and  they  were  the  eyes  of  Sorrow.  Father  ?  " — 
she  waved  her  hand  toward  the  old  home  — "  drunk- 
wrecked  —  he  would  sell  me  for  a  quart  of  whiskey. 

"  Then  I  loved  —  loved  an  image  which  is  —  mud  — 
mud  "  —  she  fairly  spat  it  out.  "  One  poor  friend  I 
had  —  I  scorned  him,  and  he  has  forgotten  me,  too. 
But  I  did  know  that  I  had  social  standing  —  that  my 
name  was  an  honored  one  until  —  now." 

"  Now !  "  —  she  gulped  it  down.  "  Now  I  am  a  com 
mon  mill  girl." 

She  had  been  walking  rapidly  down  the  road  toward 
the  house.  So  rapidly  that  she  did  not  know  how 
flushed  and  beautiful  she  had  become.  She  was  swine:- 

O 

ing  her  hat  impatiently  in  her  hand,  her  fine  hair  half 
falling  and  loose  behind,  shadowing  her  face  as  rosy  sun 
set  clouds  the  temple  on  Mt.  Ida.  A  face  of  more 
classic  beaut}',  a  skin  of  more  exquisite  fairness,  flushed 


300         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

with  the  bloom  of  youth,  Richard  Travis  had  never  be 
fore  seen. 

And  so,  long  before  she  reached  him,  he  reined  in  his 
trotters  and  sat  silently  watching  her  come.  What  a 
graceful  step  she  had  —  what  a  neck  and  head  and  hair 
—  half  bent  over  with  eyes  on  the  ground,  unconscious 
of  the  beauty  and  grace  of  their  own  loveliness. 

She  almost  ran  into  his  buggy  —  she  stopped  with  a 
little  start  of  surprise,  only  to  look  into  his  clean-cut 
face,  smiling  half  patronizingly,  half  humorously,  and 
with  a  look  of  command  too,  and  of  patronage  withal, 
of  half-gallant  heart-undoing. 

It  was  the  look  of  the  sharp-shinned  hawk  hovering 
for  an  instant,  in  sheer  intellectual  abandon  and  physical 
exuberance,  above  the  unconscious  oriole  bent  upon  its 
morning  bath. 

He  was  smiling  down  into  her  eyes  and  repeating  half 
humorously,  half  gallantly,  and  altogether  beautifully, 
she  thought,  Keats'  lines: 

"  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever; 
Its  loveliness  increases ;  it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness;  but  will  keep 
A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 
Full  of  sweet  dreams  and  health  and 
Quiet  breathing."  .  .  . 

Even  Helen  could  not  tell  how  it  was  done  nor  why 
she  had  consented.  .  .  . 

"  No  —  no  —  you  are  hot  and  tired  and  you  shall 
not  walk.  -..;  J  •  I  will  give  you  just  a  little  spin 


HELEN'S  DESPAIR  301 

before  Mammy  Maria  calls  you  to  dinner.  .  .  . 
Yes,  Lizzette  and  Sadie  B.  always  do  their  best  when  a 
pretty  girl  is  behind  them." 

How  refreshing  the  air  —  hot  and  tired  as  she  was. 
And  such  horses  —  she  had  never  before  ridden  behind 
anything  so  fine.  How  quickly  he  put  her  at  her  ease 

-  how  intellectual  he  was  —  how  much  of  a  gentleman. 
And  was  it  not  a  triumph  —  a  social  triumph  for  her  ? 
A  mill  girl,  in  name,  to  have  him  notice  her?  It  made 
her  heart  beat  quickly  to  think  that  Richard  Travis 
should  care  enough  for  her  to  give  her  this  pleasure  and 
at  a  time  when  —  when  she  always  saw  her  mother's 
eyes. 

Timidly  she  sat  by  him  scarce  lifting  her  eyes  to 
speak,  but  conscious  all  the  time  that  his  eyes  were 
devouring  her,  from  her  neck  and  hair  to  her  slippered 

foot,  sticking  half  way  out  from  skirts  of  old  lace- 
trimmed  linen. 

She  reminded  him  at  last  that  they  should  go  back 

home. 

No  —  he  would  have  her  at  home  directly.     Yes,  he'd 

have  her  there  before  the  old  nurse  missed  her. 

She  knew  the  trotters  were  going  fast,  but   she  did 

not  know  just  how  fast,  until  presently,  in  a  cloud  of 

whirling  dust  they  flew  around  a  buggy  whose  horse, 

trot  as  fast  as  it  could,  seemed  stationary  to  the  speed 

the  pair  showed  as  they  passed. 

It  was  Harry  and  Nellie.      She  glanced  coldly  ,it  him, 

and  when  he  raised  his  hat  she  cut  him  with  a  smile  of 

scorn.     She   saw   his   jaw   drop   dejectedly   as   Richard 

Travis  sang  out  banteringly: 


302         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  Sweets  to  the  sweet,  and  good-bye  to  the  three- 
minute  class." 

It  was  a  good  half  hour,  but  it  seemed  but  a  few 
minutes  before  he  had  her  back  at  the  home  gate,  her 
cheeks  burning  with  the  glory  of  that  burst  of  speed, 
and  rush  of  air. 

He  had  helped  her  out  and  stood  holding  her  hand 
as  one  old  enough  to  be  her  father.  He  smiled  and, 
looking  down  at  her  glowing  face,  and  hair,  and  neck, 
repeated : 

"  What  thou  art  we  know  not. 
What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody." 

Then  he  changed  as  she  thanked  him,  and  said: 
"  When  you  go  into  the  mill  I  shall  have  many  pleasant 
surprises  for  you  like  this." 

He  bent  over  her  and  whispered :  "  I  have  arranged 
for  your  pay  to  be  double  —  we  are  neighbors,  you 
know  —  your  father  and  I, —  and  a  pretty  girl,  like 
3rou,  need  not  work  always." 

She  started  and  looked  at  him  quickly. 

The  color  went  from  her  cheeks.  Then  it  came  again 
in  a  crimson  tide,  so  full  and  rich,  that  Richard  Travis, 
like  Titian  with  his  brush,  stood  spellbound  before  the 
work  he  had  done. 

Fearing  he  had  said  too  much,  he  dropped  his  voice 
and  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  said: 


HELEN'S  DESPAIR  303 

"  For  there  is  Harry  —  you  know." 

All  her  timidity  vanished  —  her  hanging  of  the  head, 
her  silence,  her  blushes.  Instead,  there  leaped  into  her 
eyes  that  light  which  Richard  Travis  had  never  seen 
before  —  the  light  of  a  Conway  on  mettle. 

"  I  hate  him." 

"  I  do  not  blame  you,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  be  a  — 
father  to  you  if  you  will  let  me." 

He  pressed  her  hand,  and  raising  his  hat,  was  gone. 

As  he  drove  away  he  turned  and  looked  at  her  slip 
ping  across  the  lawn  in  the  twilight.  In  his  eyes  was 
a  look  of  triumphant  excitement. 

"  To  own  her  —  such  a  creature  —  God  —  it  were 
worth  risking  my  neck." 

The  mention  of  Harry  brought  back  all  her  bitter 
recklessness  to  Helen.  She  was  but  a  child  and  her 
road,  indeed,  was  hard.  And  as  she  turned  at  the  old 
gate  and  looked  back  at  the  vanishing  buggy  she  said: 

"  Had  he  asked  me  this  evening  I'd  —  yes  —  I'd  go 
to  the  end  of  the  world  with  him.  I'd  go  —  go  —  go 
—  and  I  care  not  how." 

Richard  Travis  was  in  a  jolly  mood  at  the  supper 
table  that  night,  and  Harry  became  jolly  also,  imperti 
nently  so.  He  had  not  said  a  word  about  his  cousin  be 
ing  with  Helen,  but  it  burned  in  his  breast,  and  he 
awaited  his  chance  to  mention  it. 

"  I  have  thought  up  a  fable  since  I  have  been  at 
supper,  Cousin  Richard.  Shall  I  tell  you?" 

"  Oh  " —  with    a    cynical    smile  — "  do !  " 

"  Well,"   began    Harry    unabashed,    and    with   many 


304         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

sly  winks  and  much  histrionic  effort,  "  it  is  called  the 
'  Fox  and  the  Lion.'  Now  a  fox  in  the  pursuit  ran 
down  a  beautiful  young  doe  and  was  about  to  devour  her 
when  the  lion  came  up  and  with  a  roar  and  a  sweep  of 
his  paw,  took  her  saying  .  .  ." 

"  fi  Get  out  of  the  way,  you  whelp,'  "  said  his  cousin, 
carrying  the  fable  on,  "  for  I  perceive  you  are  not  even 
a  fox,  but  a  coj'ote,  since  no  fox  was  ever  known  to  run 
down  a  doe." 

The  smile  was  gradually  changed  on  his  face  to  a 
cruel  sneer,  and  Harry  ceased  talking  with  a  suddenness 
that  was  marked. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  WHIPPER-IN 

WHEN  the  mill  opened  the  next  day,  there  was 
work  for  Jud  Carpenter.  He  came  in  and  ap 
proached  the  superintendent's  desk  briskly. 

"  Well,  suh,  hu'  many  to-day?  "  he  asked. 

Kingsley  looked  over  his  list  of  absentees. 

"  Four,  and  two  of  them  spinners.  Carpenter,  you 
must  go  at  once  and  see  about  it.  They  arc  playing 
off,  I  am  sure." 

"  Lem'me  see  the  list,  suh," —  and  he  ran  his  eye 
over  the  names. 

"  Bud  Billings  —  plague  his  old  crotchetty  head  — . 
He  kno's  that  machine's  got  to  run,  whether  no. 
Narthin's  the  matter  with  him  —  bet  a  dollar  his  wife 
licked  him  last  night  an'  he's  mad  about  it." 

"  That  will  do  us  no  good,"  said  Kingsley  — "  what 
he  is  mad  about.  That  machine  must  be  started  at  once. 
The  others  you  can  see  afterwards." 

Carpenter  jerked  his  slouch  hat  down  over  his  eyes 
and  went  quickly  out. 

In  half  an  hour  he  was  back  again.  His  hat  was  off, 
his  face  was  red,  his  shaggy  eyebrows  quivered  with 
angry  determination,  as,  with  one  hand  in  the  collar  of 
the  frightened  Bud,  he  pulled  the  slubber  into  the  super 
intendent's  presence. 

20  305 


306         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Following  her  husband  came  Mrs.  Billings  —  a  small, 
bony,  wiry,  black-eyed  woman,  with  a  firmly  set  mouth 
and  a  perpetual  thunder-cloud  on  her  brow  —  perhaps 
the  shadow  of  her  coarse,  crow-black  hair. 

While  Jud  dragged  him,  she  carried  a  stick  and  prod 
ded  Bud  in  the  rear.  Nor  was  she  chary  in  abuse. 

Jerked  into  the  superintendent's  presence,  Bud's  scared 
eyes  darted  here  and  there  as  if  looking  for  a  door  to 
break  through,  and  all  the  time  they  were  silently  pro 
testing.  His  hands,  too,  joined  in  the  protest;  one  of 
them  wagged  beseechingly  behind  appealing  to  his 
spouse  to  desist  —  the  other  went  through  the  same  mo 
tion  in  front  begging  Jud  Carpenter  for  mercy. 

But  not  a  word  did  he  utter  —  not  even  a  grunt  did 
he  make. 

They  halted  as  quickly  as  they  entered.  Bud's  eyes 
sought  the  ceiling,  the  window,  the  floor, —  anywhere 
but  straight  ahead  of  him. 

His  wife  walked  up  to  the  superintendent's  desk  —  she 
was  hot  and  flushed.  Her  small  black  eyes,  one  of  which 
wras  cocked  cynically,  flashed  fire,  her  coarse  hair  fell 
across  her  forehead,  or  was  plastered  to  her  head  with 
perspiration. 

It  was  pathetic  to  look  at  Bud,  with  his  deep-set, 
scared  eyes.  Kingsley  had  never  heard  him  speak  a 
word,  nor  had  he  even  been  able  to  catch  his  eye.  But 
he  was  the  best  slubber  in  the  mill  —  tireless,  pains 
taking.  His  place  could  not  be  filled. 

Bud  was  really  a  good-natured  favorite  of  Kingsley 
and  when  the  superintendent  saw  him,  scared  and  pant- 


THE  WHIPPER-IN  307 

ing,  his  tongue  half  out,  with  Jud  Carpenter's  hand  still 
in  his  collar,  he  motioned  to  Jud  to  turn  him  loose. 

"Uh  —  uh  — grunted    Jud  "—  he    will    bolt    sho!" 

Kingsley  noticed  that  Bud's  head  was  bound  with  a 
cloth. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Bud?  "  he  asked  kindly. 

The  slubber  never  spoke,  but  glanced  at  his  wife,  who 
stood  glaring  at  him.  Then  she  broke  out  in  a  thin, 
drawling,  daring,  poor-white  voice  —  a  ring  of  imper 
tinence  and  even  a  challenge  in  it: 

"  I'll  tell  you'uns  what's  the  matter  with  Bud.  Bud 
Billings  is  got  what  most  men  needs  when  they  begin 
to  raise  sand  about  their  vittels  for  nothin'.  I've  busted 
a  plate  over  his  head." 

She  struck  an  attitude  before  Kingsley  which  plainly 
indicated  that  she  might  break  another  one.  It  was 
also  an  attitude  which  asked :  "  What  are  you  going 
to  do  about  it?" 

Bud  nodded  emphatically  —  a  nod  that  spoke  more 
than  words.  It  was  a  positive,  unanimous  assertion  on 
his  part  that  the  plate  had  been  broken  there. 

"  Ne'ow,  Mister  Kingsley,  you  know  yo'se'f  that  Bud 
is  mighty  slow  mouthed  —  he  don't  talk  much  an'  I  have 
to  do  his  talkin'  fur  him.  Ne'ow  Bud  don't  intend  for 
to  be  so  mean  "  —  she  added  a  little  softer  — "  but  every 
month  about  the  full  of  the  moon,  Bud  seems  to  think 
somehow  that  it  is  about  time  fur  him  to  make  a  fool 
of  hisse'f  again.  He  wouldn't  say  nothin'  fur  a  month 
—  he  is  quiet  as  a  lam'  an'  works  steady  as  a  clock  — 
then  all  to  once  the  fool  spell  'ud  hit  him  an'  then  some 
crockery  'ud  have  to  be  wasted. 


808         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  They  ain't  no  reason  for  it,  Mister  Kingsley  — • 
Bud  cyant  sho'  the  rappin'  of  yo'  finger  fur  havin' 
sech  spells  along  towards  the  full  of  the  moon.  Bud 
cyant  tell  you  why,  Mister  Kingsley,  to  save  his  soul  — 
'cept  that  he  jes'  thinks  he's  got  to  do  it  an'  put  me  to 
the  expense  of  bustin'  crockery. 

"  I  stood  it  mighty  nigh  two  years  arter  Bud  and  me 
was  spliced,  thinkin'  maybe  it  war  ther  bed-bugs  a-bitin' 
Bud,  long  towards  the  full  of  the  moon.  So  I  watched 
that  pint  an'  killed  'em  all  long  towards  the  first  quarter 
with  quicksilver  an'  the  white  of  an  egg.  Wai,  Bud 
never  sed  a  word  all  that  month.  He  never  opened  his 
mouth  an'  he  acted  jes'  lak  a  puf'fec'  gentleman  an' 
a  dutiful  dotin'  husband — (Bud  wiped  away  a  tear) 
—  until  the  time  come  for  the  fool  spell  to  hit  'im, 
an  'all  to  once  you  never  seed  sech  a  fool  spell  hit  a 
man  befo'. 

"  What  you  reckin'  Bud  done,  Mister  Kingsley?  Bud 
Billins  thar,  what  did  he  do?  Got  mad  about  his  bis 
cuits  —  it's  the  funny  way  the  fool  spell  allers  hits  him, 
he  never  gits  mad  about  anything  but  his  biscuits. 
Why  I  cud  feed  Bud  on  dynamite  an'  he'd  take  it  all 
right  if  he  cu'd  eat  it  along  with  his  biscuits.  Onct  I 
put  concentrated  lye  in  his  coffee  by  mistake.  I'd  never 
knowed  it  if  the  pup  hadn't  got  some  of  it  by  mistake 
an'  rolled  over  an'  died  in  agony.  I  rushed  to  the  mill 
thinkin'  Bud  ud'  be  dead,  sho' —  but  he  wa'nt.  He 
never  noticed  it.*  I  noticed  his  whiskers  an'  eyebrows 
was  singed  off  an'  questioned  'im  'bout  it  and  he  'lowed 
he  felt  sorter  quare  arter  he  drunk  his  coffee,  an'  full 
like,  an'  he  belched  an'  it  sot  his  whiskers  an'  eyebrows 


THE  WHIPPER-IN  309 

a-fiah,  which  ther  same  kinder  puzzled  him  fur  a  while ; 
but  it  must  be  biscuits  to  make  him  raise  cain.  It  hap 
pened  at  the  breakfas'  table.  Mind  you,  Mister  Kings- 
ly,  Bud  didn't  say  it  to  my  face  —  no,  he  never  says 
anything  to  my  face  —  but  he  gits  up  an'  picks  up  the 
cat  an'  tells  ther  cat  what  he  thinks  of  me  —  his  own 
spliced  an'  wedded  wife  —  sland'in'  me  to  the  cat." 

She  shook  her  finger  in  his  face  — "  You  know  you  did, 
Bud  Billins  —  an'  what  you  reckin  he  told  ther  cat, 
Mister  Kingsley  —  told  her  I  was  a  —  a  — 

She  gasped  —  she  clinched  her  fist.  Bud  dodged  an' 
tried  to  break  away. 

"  Told  him  I  was  a  —  a  —  heifer !  " 

Bud  looked  sheepishly  around  —  he  tried  even  to  run, 
but  Jud  Carpenter  held  him  fast.  She  shook  her  finger 
in  his  face.  "  I  heard  you  say  it,  Bud  Billins,  you 
know  I  did  an'  I  busted  a  plate  over  yo'  head." 

"  But,  my  dear  Madam,"  said  Kingsley,  "  that  was  no 
reason  to  treat  him  so  badly." 

"  Oh,  it  wa'nt?  "  she  shrieked  — "  to  tattle-tale  to 
the  house-cat  about  yo'  own  spliced  an'  wedded  wife? 
In  her  own  home  an'  yard  —  her  that  you've  sworn  to 
love  an'  cherish  agin  bed  an'  board  —  ter  call  her  a 
heifer?" 

She  slipped  her  hand  under  her  apron  and  produced 
a  deadly  looking  blue  plate  of  thick  cheap  wrare.  Her 
eyes  blazed,  her  voice  became  husky  with  anger. 

"  An'  you  don't  think  that  was  nothin'  ? "  she 
shrieked. 

"  You  don't  understand  me,  my  dear  Madam,"  said 
Kingsley  quickly.  "  I  meant  that  it  was  no  reason  why 


310         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

you  should  continue  to  treat  him  so  after  he  has  suffered 
and  is  sorry.     Of  course  you  have  got  to  control  Bud." 

She  softened  and  went  on. 

"  Wai,  it  was  mighty  nigh  a  year  befo'  Bud  paid  any 
mo'  'tention  to  the  cat.  The  full  moon  quit  'fectin' 
him  —  he  even  quit  eatin'  biscuits.  Then  the  spell 
commenced  to  come  onct  a  year  an'  he  cu'dn't  pass  over 
blackberry  winter  to  save  his  life.  Mind  you  he  never 
sed  anything  to  me  about  it,  but  one  day  he  ups  an' 
gits  choked  on  a  chicken  gizzerd  an'  coughs  an'  wheezes 
an'  goes  on  so  like  a  fool  that  I  ups  with  the  cheer  an' 
comes  down  on  his  head  a-thinkin'  I'd  make  him  cough 
it  up.  I  mout  a  bin  a  little  riled  an'  hit  hardcr'n  I 
orter,  but  I  didn't  mean  anything  by  it,  an'  he  did 
cough  it  up  on  my  clean  floor,  an'  I'm  willin'  to  say 
agin'  I  was  a  little  hasty,  that's  true,  in  callin'  him  a 
lop-sided  son  of  a  pigeon-toed  monkey,  for  Bud  riled 
me  mighty.  But  what  you  reckin  he  done  ?  " 

She  shook  her  finger  in  his  face  again.  Bud  tried  to 
run  again. 

"  You  kno'  you  done  it,  Bud  Billing  —  I  followed  you 
an'  listened  when  you  tuck  up  the  cat  an'  you  whispered 
in  the  cat's  year  that  your  spliced  an'  wedded  wife  was 
a  —  a  —  she  devil!  " 

"  It  tuck  two  plates  that  time,  Mister  Kingsley  - 
that's  the  time  Bud  didn't  draw  no  pay  fur  two  weeks. 

"  Wai,  that  was  over  a  year  ago,  an'  Bud  he's  been 
a  behavin'  mighty  well,  untwell  this  mornin'.  It's  true 
he  didn't  say  much,  but  he  sed  'miff  fur  me  to  see  ther 
spell  was  acomin'  en  an'  I'd  better  bust  it  up  befo'  it 
got  into  his  blood  an'  sot  *im  to  cultivate  the  company 


THE  WHIPPER-IN  311 

of  the  cat.  I  seed  I  had  to  check  the  disease  afore  it 
got  too  strong,  fur  I  seed  Bud  was  try  in'  honestly  to 
taper  off  with  them  spells  an'  shake  with  the  cat  if  he 
cu'd,  so  when  he  kinder  snorted  a  little  this  mornin'  be 
cause  he  didn't  have  but  one  aig  an'  then  kinder  began  to 
look  aroun'  as  if  he  was  thinkin'  of  mice,  I  busted  a  saucer 
over  his  head  an'  fetched  'im  too,  grateful  la'k  an' 
haPPy>  to  be  hisse'f  agin.  I  think  he's  nearly  c'wored 
an'  I'm  mighty  glad  you  is,  Bud  Billins,  fur  its  costin' 
a  lot  of  mighty  good  crockery  to  c'wore  you. 

"Now  you  all  jes'  lem'me  'lone,  Mister  Kingsley  — 
lem'me  manage  Bud.  He's  slo'  mouthed  as  I'm  tellin' 
you,  but  he's  gittin'  over  them  spells  an'  I'm  gwintcr 
c'wore  him  if  I  hafter  go  into  the  queensware  bus'ness 
on  my  own  hook.  Now,  Bud  Billins,  you  jes'  go  in 
there  now  an'  go  to  tendin'  to  that  slubbin'  machine,  an' 
don't  you  so  much  as  look  at  a  cat  twixt  now  an'  next 
Christmas." 

Bud  needed  no  further  admonition.  He  bolted  for 
the  door  and  was  soon  silently  at  work. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SAMANTHA    CAEEWE 

BUT  Jud  Carpenter  did  not  finish  his  work  by  start 
ing  the  slubbing  machine.  Samantha  Carewe, 
one  of  the  main  loom  women,  was  absent.  Go 
ing  over  to  her  cottage,  he  was  told  by  her  mother,  a 
glinty-eyed,  shrewd  looking,  hard  featured  woman  — • 
that  Samantha  was  "  mighty  nigh  dead." 

"  Oh,  she's  mighty  nigh  dead,  is  she,"  said  Jud  with 
a  tinge  of  sarcasm  — "  Fve  heurn  of  her  bein'  mighty 
nigh  dead  befo'.  Well,  I  wanter  see  her." 

The  mother  looked  at  him  sourly,  but  barred  the 
doorway  with  her  form.  Jud  fixed  his  hard  cunning 
eyes  on  her. 

"  Cyant  see  her;  I  tell  you  —  she's  mighty  po'ly." 

"  Well,  cyant  you  go  an'  tell  her  that  Mister  Jud 
Cyarpenter  is  here  an'  'ud  like  to  kno'  if  he  can  be  of 
any  sarvice  to  her  in  order  in'  her  burial  robe  an'  coffin, 
or  takin'  her  last  will  an'  testerment." 

With  that  he  pushed  himself  in  the  doorway,  rudely 
brushing  the  woman  aside.  "  Now  lem'me  see  that  gyrl 
— "  he  added  sternly  — "  that  loom  is  got  to  run  or 
you  will  starve,  an'  if  she's  sick  I  want  to  kno'  it.  I've 
seed  her  have  the  toe-ache  befo'." 

The  door  of  the  room  in  which  Samantha  lay  was 
open,  and  in  plain  view  of  the  hall  she  lay  with  a  look 

312 


SAMANTHA  CAREWE  313 

of  pain,  feigned  or  real,  on  her  face.  She  was  a 
woman  past  forty  —  a  spinster  truly  —  who  had  been 
in  the  mill  since  it  was  first  started,  and,  as  she  came 
from  a  South  Carolina  mill  to  the  Acme,  had,  in  fact, 
been  in  a  cotton  mill,  as  she  said  — "  all  her  life."  For 
she  could  not  remember  when,  as  a  child  even,  she  had 
not  worked  in  one. 

Her  chest  was  sunken,  her  shoulders  stooped,  her 
whole  form  corded  and  knotted  with  the  fight  against 
machinery.  Her  skin,  bronzed  and  sallow,  looked  not 
unlike  the  hard,  fine  wood-work  of  the  loom,  oiled  with 
constant,  use. 

Jud  walked  in  unceremoniously. 

"  What  ails  you,  Samanthy?  "  he  asked,  with  feigned 
kindness. 

"  Oh,  I  dunno,  Jud,  but  I've  got  a  powerful  hurtin' 
in  my  innards." 

"  The  hurtin'  was  so  bad,"  said  her  mother,  "  that  I 
had  to  put  a  hot  rock  on  her  stomach,  last  night." 

She  motioned  to  a  stone  lying  on  the  hearth.  Jud 
glanced  at  it  —  its  size  staggered  him. 

"  Good  Lord !  an'  you  say  you  had  that  thing  on  her 
stomach?  Why  didn't  you  send  her  up  to  the  mill  an' 
let  us  lay  a  hot  steam  engine  on  her  ?  " 

"  What  you  been  eatin',  Samanthy  ?  "  he  asked  sud 
denly. 

"  Nuthin',  Jud  —  I  aint  got  no  appetite  at  all ! " 

"  No,  she  aint  eat  a  blessed  thing,  hardly,  to-day," 
said  her  mother — "  jes'  seemed  to  have  lost  her  appe 
tite  from  a  to  izzard." 

"  I  wish  the  store'd  keep  wild  cherry  bark  and  whiskey 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

—  somethin'  to  make  us  eat.     We  cyant  work  unless  we 
can  eat,"  said  Samantha,  woefully. 

"  Great  Scott,"  said  Jud,  "  what  we  want  to  do  is  to 
keep  you  folks  from  eatin'  so  much.  Lcm'me  see,"  he 
added  after  a  pause,  as  if  still  thinking  he'd  get  to  the 
source  of  her  trouble  — "  Yistidday  was  Sunday  —  you 
didn't  have  to  work  —  now  what  did  you  eat  for  break 
fast?" 

"  Nothin' —  oh,    I    aint    got   no   appetite   at    all  " 
whined  Miss  Samantha. 

"  Well,  what  did  you  eat  —  I  wanter  find  out  what 
ails  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  lem'me  see,"  said  Miss  Samantha,  counting 
on  her  fingers  — "  a  biled  mackrel,  some  fried  bacon, 
two  pones  of  corn  bread  —  kinder  forced  it  down." 

"  Ur-huh  —  '  said  Jud,  thoughtfully  — "  of  course 
you  had  to  drink,  too." 

"  Yes  "  —  whined  Miss  Samantha  woefully  — "  two 
glasses  of  buttermilk." 

Jud  elevated  his  eye-brows     "  An'  for  dinner?  " 

"  O,  Lor'.  Jes'  cu'dn't  eat  nothin'  fur  dinner,"  she 
wailed.  "  If  the  Company'd  only  get  some  cherry  bark 
an'  whiskey  " 

"  At  dinner,"  said  Mrs  Carewe,  stroking  her  chin  — 
"  we  had  some  sour-kraut  —  she  eat  right  pe'rtly  of 
that  —  kinder  seemed  lak  a  appetizer  to  her.  She 
mixed  it  with  biled  cabbage  an'  et  right  pe'rtly  of  it." 

"  An'  some  mo'  buttermilk  —  it  kinder  cools  my 
stomach,"  whined  Miss  Samantha.  "  An'  hog-jowl,  an' 
corn-bread  —  anything  else  Maw?  " 

"  A  raw  onion  in  vinegar,"  said  her  mother  — "  It's 


SAMANTHA  CARE  WE  315 

the  only  thing  that  seems  to  make  you  want  to  eat  a 
little.  An'  reddishes  —  we  had  some  new  reddishes  fur 
dinner  —  didn't  we,  Samanthy  ?  " 

"  Good  Lord,"  snapped  Jud  — "  reddishes  an'  butter 
milk  —  no  wonder  you  needed  that  weight  on  your 
stomach  —  it's  all  that  kept  you  from  floatin'  in  the 
air.  Cyant  eat  —  O  good  Lord !  " 

They  were  silent  —  Miss  Samantha  making  wry  faces 
with  her  pain. 

"  Of  course  you  didn't  eat  no  supper?  "  he  asked. 
"  No  —  we  don'  eat  no  supper  Sunday  night,"  said 
Mrs.   Care  we. 

"  Didn't  eat  none  at  all,"  asked  Jud  — "  not  even  a 
little?" 

"  Well,  'bout  nine  o'clock  I  thought  I'd  eat  a  little, 
to  keep  me  from  gittin'  hungry  befo'  day,  so  I  et  a  raw 
onion,  an'  some  black  walnuts,  and  dried  prunes,  an' — 
an'—" 

"  A  few  apples  we  had  in  the  cellar,"  added  her 
mother,  "  an'  a  huckleberry  pie,  an'  buttermilk  — " 

Jud  jumped  up  — "  Good  Lord,  I  thought  you  was 
a  fool  when  you  said  you  put  that  stone  on  her  stomach, 
but  now  I  know  you  done  the  right  thing  —  you  might 
have  anchored  her  by  a  chain  to  the  bed  post,  too,  in 
case  the  rock  didn't  hold  her  down.  Now  look  here," 
he  went  on  to  Mrs.  Carewe,  "  I'll  go  to  the  sto'  an'  send 
you  a  half  pound  of  salts,  a  bottle  of  oil  an'  turbb'ntine. 
Give  her  plenty  of  it  an'  have  her  at  the  mill  by  to 
morrow,  or  I'll  cut  off  all  your  rations.  As  it  is  I 
don't  see  that  you  need  them,  anyway,  to  eat " —  he 
sneered  — "  for  you  '  aint  got  no  appetite  at  all.'  " 


316         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

From  the  Carewe  cottage  Jud  went  to  a  small  yellow 
cottage  on  the  farthest  side  of  the  valley.  It  was  the 
home  of  John  Corbin,  and  Willis,  his  ten-year-old  son, 
was  one  of  the  main  doffers.  The  father  was  lounging 
lazily  on  the  little  front  verandah,  smoking  his  pipe. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Willis?"  asked  Jud  after 
he  had  come  up. 

"  Why,  nothin'— "  drawled  the  father.  "  Aint  he  at 
the  mill?" 

"  No  —  the  other  four  children  of  your'n  is  there, 
but  Willis  aint." 

The  man  arose  with  more  than  usual  alacrity.  "  I'll 
see  that  he  is  there  — "  he  declared  — "  it's  as  much  as 
we  can  do  to  live  on  what  they  makes,  an'  I  don't  want 
no  dockin'  for  any  sickness  if  I  can  he'p  it." 

Willis,  a  pale  over-worked  lad,  was  down  with  ton- 
silitis.  Jud  heard  the  father  and  mother  in  an  angry 
dispute.  She  was  trying  to  persuade  him  to  let  the 
boy  stay  at  home.  In  the  end  hot  words  were  used, 
and  finally  the  father  came  out  followed  by  the  pale 
and  hungry-eyed  boy. 

"  He'd  better  die  at  the  mill  at  work  than  here  at 
home,"  the  father  added  brutally,  as  Jud  led  him  off, 
"  fur  then  the  rest  of  us  will  have  that  much  ahead  to 
live  on." 

He  settled  lazily  back  in  his  chair,  and  resumed  his 
smoking. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A    QUICK    CONVERSION 

IT  happened  that  morning  that  the  old  Bishop  was 
on  his  daily   round,   visiting  the   sick  of   Cotton- 
town.     He  went  every  day,  from  house  to  house, 
helping  the  sick,  cheering  the  well,  and  better  than  all 
things  else,  putting  into  the  hearts  of  the  disheartened 
that  priceless  gift  of  coming  again. 

For  of  all  the  gifts  the  gods  do  give  to  men,  that 
is  the  greatest  —  the  ability  to  induce  their  fallen  fel 
low  man  to  look  up  and  hope  again.  The  gift  to  spur 
others  onward  —  the  gift  to  make  men  reach  up.  His 
flock  were  all  mill  people,  their  devotion  to  him  wonder 
ful.  In  the  rush  and  struggle  of  the  strenuous  world 
around  them,  this  humble  old  man  was  the  only  being 
to  whom  they  could  go  for  spiritual  help. 

To-day  in  his  rounds,  one  thing  impressed  him  more 
sadly  than  anything  else  —  for  he  saw  it  so  plainly 
when  he  visited  their  homes  —  and  that  was  that  with 
all  their  hard  work,  from  the  oldest  to  the  youngest, 
with  all  their  traffic  in  human  life,  stealing  the  bud 
along  with  the  broken  and  severed  stem  —  -  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  the  Acme  mills  paid  out  to  the  people  but  very 
little  money.  Work  as  they  might,  they  seldom  saw 
anything  but  an  order  on  a  store,  for  clothes  and  pro- 

317 


318         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

visions  sold  to  them  at  prices  that  would  make  a  Jew 
peddler  blush  for  shame. 

The  Bishop  found  entire  families  who  never  saw  a 
piece  of  money  the  year  round. 

There  are  families  and  families,  and  some  are  more 
shiftless  than  others. 

In  one  of  the  cottages  the  old  man  found  a  broken 
down  little  thing  of  seven,  sick.  For  just  such  trips 
he  kept  his  pockets  full  of  things,  and  such  wonder 
ful  pockets  they  would  have  been  to  a  healthful  natural 
child !  Ginger  cakes  —  a  regular  Noah's  Ark,  and 
apples,  red  and  yellow.  Sweet  gum,  too,  which  he  had 
himself  gathered  from  the  trees  in  the  woods.  And 
there  were  even  candy  dolls  and  peppermints. 

"  Oh,  well,  maybe  I  can  help  her,  po'  little  thing," 
the  Bishop  said  when  the  mother  conducted  him  in.  But 
one  look  at  her  was  enough  —  that  dead,  unmeaning 
look,  not  unconscious,  but  unmeaning  —  deadened  —  a 
disease  which  to  a  robust  child  would  mean  fever  and 
a  few  days'  sickness  —  to  this  one  the  Bishop  knew 
it  meant  atrophy  and  death.  And  as  the  old  mai 
looked  at  her,  he  thought  it  were  better  that  she  should 
go.  For  to  her  life  had  long  since  lost  its  individuality, 
and  dwarfed  her  into  a  nerveless  machine  —  the  little 
frame  was  nothing  more  than  one  of  a  thousand  monu 
ments  to  the  cotton  mill  —  a  mechanical  thing,  which 
might  cease  to  run  at  any  time. 

"How  old  is  she?"  asked  the  Bishop,  sitting  down 
by  the  child  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 

"  We  put  her  in  the  mill  two  years  ago  when  she  was 
seven,"  said  the  mother.  "  We  was  starvin'  an'  had  to 


A  QUICK  CONVERSION  319 

do  somethin'."  She  added  this  with  as  much  of  an 
apologetic  tone  as  her  nature  would  permit.  "  We  told 
the  mill  men  she  was  ten,"  she  added.  "  We  had  to  do 
it.  The  fust  week  she  got  two  fingers  mashed  off." 

The  Bishop  was  silent,  then  he  said :  "  It's  bes'  al 
ways  to  tell  the  truth.  Liar  is  a  fast  horse,  but  he 
never  runs  but  one  race." 

Although  there  were  no  laws  in  Alabama  against 
child  labor,  the  mill  drew  the  lines  then  as  now,  if  possi 
ble,  on  very  young  children.  Not  that  it  cared  for  the 
child  —  but  because  it  could  be  brought  to  the  mill 
too  young  for  any  practical  use,  unless  it  was  wise 
beyond  its  age. 

He  handed  the  little  thing  a  ginger  man.  She  looked 
at  it  —  the  first  she  had  ever  seen, —  and  then  at  the 
giver  in  the  way  a  wild  thing  would,  as  if  expecting 
some  trick  in  the  proffered  kindness;  but  when  he  tried 
to  caress  her  and  spoke  kindly,  she  shrank  under  the 
cover  and  hid  her  head  with  fear. 

It  was  not  a  child,  but  a  little  animal  —  a  wild  being 
of  an  unknown  species  in  a  child's  skin  —  the  missing 
link,  perhaps;  the  link  missing  between  the  natural, 
kindly  instinct  of  the  wild  thing,  the  brute,  the  monkey, 
the  anthropoid  ape,  which  protects  its  young  even  at 
the  expense  of  its  life,  and  civilized  man  of  to-day,  the 
speaking  creature,  the  so-called  Christian  creature,  who 
sells  his  young  to  the  director-Devils  of  mills  and  ma 
chinery  and  prolongs  his  own  life  by  the  death  of  his 
offspring. 

Biology  teaches  that  many  of  the  very  lowest  forms 


320         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

of  life  eat  their  young.  Is  civilized  man  merely  a  case, 
at  last,  of  reversion  to  a  primitive  type? 

She  hid  her  head  and  then  peeped  timidly  from  under 
the  cover  at  the  kindly  old  man.  He  had  seen  a  fox 
driven  into  its  hole  by  dogs  do  the  same  thing. 

She  did  not  know  what  a  smile  meant,  nor  a  caress, 
nor  a  proffered  gift.  Tremblingly  she  lay,  under  the 
dirty  quilt,  expecting  a  kick,  a  cuff. 

The  Bishop  sat  down  by  the  bedside  and  took  out  a 
paper.  "  It'll  be  an  hour  or  so  I  can  spend,"  he  said 
to  the  mother  — "  maybe  you'd  like  to  be  doin'  about 
a  little." 

"  Come  to  think  of  it,  I'm  pow'ful  obleeged  to  you," 
she  said.  "  I've  all  my  mornin'  washin'  to  do  yit,  only 
I  was  afraid  to  leave  her  alone." 

"  You  do  yo'  washin' —  I'll  watch  her.  I'm  a  pretty 
good  sort  of  a  boss  doctor  myse'f ." 

The  child  had  nodded  off  to  sleep,  the  Bishop  was 
reading  his  paper,  when  a  loud  voice  was  heard  in  the 
hallway  and  some  rough  steps  that  shook  the  little 
flimsily  made  floor  of  the  cottage,  and  made  it  rock  with 
the  tramp  of  them.  The  door  opened  suddenly  and  Jud 
Carpenter,  angry,  boisterous,  and  presumptuous,  en 
tered.  The  child  had  awakened  at  the  sound  of  Carpen 
ter's  foot  fall,  and  now,  frightened  beyond  control, 
she  trembled  and  wept  under  the  cover. 

There  are  natural  antipathies  and  they  are  God-given. 
They  are  the  rough  cogs  in  the  wheel  of  things.  But 
uneven  as  they  are,  rough  and  grating,  strike  them  off 
and  the  wheel  would  be  there  still,  but  it  would  not 


A  QUICK  CONVERSION 

turn.  It  is  the  friction  of  life  that  moves  it.  And 
movement  is  the  law  of  life. 

Antipathies  —  thank  God  who  gave  them  to  us !  But 
for  them  the  shepherd  dog  would  lie  down  with  the  wolf. 

The  only  man  in  Cottontown  who  did  not  like  the 
Bishop  was  Jud  Carpenter,  and  the  only  man  in  the  world 
whom  the  Bishop  did  not  love  was  Jud  Carpenter.  And 
many  a  time  in  his  life  the  old  man  had  prayed :  "  O 
God,  teach  me  to  love  Jud  Carpenter  and  despise  his 
ways." 

Carpenter  glared  insolently  at  the  old  man  quietly 
reading  his  paper,  and  asked  satirically.  "  Wai,  what 
ails  her,  doctor  ?  " 

"  Mill-icious  fever,"  remarked  the  Bishop  promptly 
with  becoming  accent  on  the  first  syllable,  and  scarcely 
raising  his  eyes  from  the  paper. 

Carpenter  flushed.  He  had  met  the  Bishop  too  often 
in  contests  which  required  courage  and  brains  not  to 
have  discovered  by  now  that  he  was  no  match  for  the 
man  who  could  both  pray  and  fight. 

"  They  aint  half  as  sick  as  they  make  out  an'  I've 
come  to  see  about  it,"  he  added.  He  felt  the  child's 
pulse.  "  She  ain't  sick  to  hurt.  That  spinner  is  idle 
over  yonder  an'  I  guess  I'll  jes'  be  carry  in'  her  back. 
Wuck  —  it's  the  greatest  tonic  in  the  wori' — it's  the 
Hostetter's  Bitters  of  life,"  he  added,  trying  to  be 
funny. 

The  Bishop  looked  up.  "  Yes,  but  I've  knowed  men 
to  get  so  drunk  on  bitters  they  didn't  kno'  a  mill-dam 
from  a  dam'-mill !  " 

Carpenter  smiled :  "  Wai,  she  ain't  hurt  —  guess 
21 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

I'll  jes'  git  her  cloze  on  an'  take  her  over  " — still  feel 
ing  the  child's  wrist  while  she  shuddered  and  hid  under 
the  cover.  Nothing  but  her  arm  was  out,  and  from  the 
nervous  grip  of  her  little  claw-like  fingers  the  old  man 
could  only  guess  her  terrible  fear. 

"  You  .sho'ly  don't  mean  that,  Jud  Carpenter  ?  "  said 
the  Bishop,  with  surprise  in  his  heretofore  calm  tone. 

"  Wai,  that's  jus'  what  I  do  mean,  Doctor,"  remarked 
Carpenter  dryly,  and  in  an  irritated  voice. 

"  Jud  Carpenter,"  said  the  old  man  rising  — "  I  am 
a  man  of  God  —  it  is  my  faith  an'  hope.  I'm  gettin' 
old,  but  I  have  been  a  man  in  my  day,  an'  I've  still  got 
strength  enough  left  with  God's  he'p  to  stop  you.  You 
shan't  tech  that  child." 

In  an  instant  Carpenter  was  ablaze  —  profane,  abu 
sive,  insolent  —  and  as  the  old  man  stepped  between 
him  and  the  bed,  the  Whipper-in's  anger  overcame  all 
else. 

The  child  under  the  cover  heard  a  resounding  whack 
and  stuck  her  head  out  in  time  to  see  the  hot  blood  leap 
to  the  old  man's  cheeks  where  Carpenter's  blow  had 
fallen.  For  a  moment  he  paused,  and  then  the  child 
saw  the  old  overseer's  huge  fist  gripping  spasmodically, 
and  the  big  muscles  of  his  arms  and  shoulders  rolling 
beneath  the  folds  of  his  coat,  as  a  crouching  lion's  skin 
rolls  around  beneath  his  mane  before  he  springs. 

Again  and  again  it  gripped,  and  relaxed  —  gripped 
and  relaxed  again.  Mastering  himself  with  a  great 
effort,  the  old  man  turned  to  the  man  who  had  slapped 
him. 


A  QUICK  CONVERSION  823 

"  Strike  the  other  cheek,  you  coward,  as  my  Master 
sed  you  would." 

Even  the  child  was  surprised  when  Carpenter,  half 
wickedly,  in  rage,  half  tauntingly  slapped  the  other 
cheek  with  a  blow  that  almost  sent  the  preacher  reeling 
against  the  bed.  Again  the  great  fist  gripped  con 
vulsively,  and  the  big  muscles  that  had  once  pitched  the 
Mountain  Giant  over  a  rail  fence  worked  —  rolled  be 
neath  their  covering. 

"  What  else  kin  I  do  for  you  at  the  request  of  yo' 
Master  ?  "  sneered  Carpenter. 

"  As  He  never  said  anything  further  on  the  subject," 
said  the  old  man,  in  a  dry  pitched  voice  that  told  how 
hard  he  was  trying  to  control  himself,  "  I  take  it  He 
intended  me  to  use  the  same  means  that  He  employed 
when  He  run  the  thieves  an'  bullies  of  His  day  out  of 
the  temple  of  God." 

The  child  thought  they  were  embracing.  It  was 
the  old  hold  and  the  double  hip-thrust,  by  which  the 
overseer  had  conquered  so  often  before  in  his  manhood's 
prime.  Nor  was  his  old-time  strength  gone.  It  came 
in  a  wave  of  righteous  indignation,  and  like  the  gust  of 
a  whirlwind  striking  the  spars  of  a  rotting  ship.  Never 
in  his  life  had  Carpenter  been  snapped  so  nearly  in  two. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  every  bone  in  his  body  broke  when 
he  hit  the  floor.  ...  It  was  ten  minutes  before 
his  head  began  to  know  things  again.  Dazed,  he  opened 
his  eyes  to  see  the  Bishop  sitting  calmly  by  his  side  bath 
ing  his  face  writh  cold  water.  The  blood  had  been  run 
ning  from  his  nose,  for  the  rag  and  water  were  colored. 
His  head  ached. 


824         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Jud  Carpenter  had  one  redeeming  trait  —  it  was  an 
appreciation  of  the  humorous.  No  man  has  ever  been 
entirely  lost  or  entirely  miserable,  who  has  had  a  touch 
of  humor  in  him.  As  the  Bishop  put  a  pillow  under 
his  head  and  then  locked  the  door  to  keep  any  one  else 
out,  the  ridiculousness  of  it  all  came  over  him,  and  he 
said  sillily : 

"  Wai,  I  reckin  you've  'bout  converted  me  this  time." 

"  Jud  Carpenter,"  said  the  Bishop,  his  face  white 
with  shame,  "  for  God's  sake  don't  tell  anybody  I  done 
that—" 

Jud  smiled  as  he  arose  and  put  on  his  hat.  "  I  can 
stan'  bein'  licked,"  he  added  good  naturedly  — "  because 
I  remember  now  that  I've  run  up  agin  the  old  cham 
pion  of  the  Tennessee  Valley  —  ain't  that  what  they 
useter  call  you  ?  —  but  it  does  hurt  me  sorter,  to  think 
you'd  suppose  I'd  be  such  a  damned  fool  as  to  tell  it." 

He  felt  the  child's  wrist  again.  "  'Pears  lak  she's 
got  a  little  fever  since  all  this  excitement  —  guess  I'll 
jes'  let  her  be  to-day." 

"  I  do  think  it  'ud  be  better,  Jud,"  said  the  Bishop 
gently. 

And  Jud  pulled  down  his  hat  and  slipped  quietly 
out. 

The  mother  never  did  understand  from  the  child  just 
what  happened.  When  she  came  in  the  Bishop  had  her 
so  much  better  that  the  little  thing  actually  was  play 
ing  with  his  ginger  cake  dolls,  and  had  eaten  one  of 
them. 

It  was  bed  time  that  night  before  the  child  finally 


A  QUICK  CONVERSION  325 

whispered  it  out :  "  Maw,  did  you  ever  see  two  men 
hug  each  other?  " 

"No —  why?" 

"  Why,  the  Bishop  he  hugged  Jud  Carpenter  so 
hard  he  fetched  the  bleed  out  of  his  nose !  " 

It  was  her  first  and  last  sight  of  a  ginger-man.  Two 
days  later  she  was  buried,  and  few  save  the  old  Bishop 
knew  she  had  died;  for  Cottontown  did  not  care. 


CHAPTER  XX 

A    LIVE    FUNERAL 

THE  next  Sunday  was  an  interesting  occasion  — 
voted  so  by  all  Cottontown  when  it  was  over. 
There  was  a  large  congregation  out,  caused  by 
the  announcement  of  the  Bishop  the  week  before, 

"  Nex'  Sunday  I  intend  to  preach  Uncle  Dave  Dick 
ey's  funeral  sermon.  I've  talked  to  Dave  about  it  an' 
he  tells  me  he  has  got  all  kinds  of  heart  disease  with  a 
fair  sprinklin'  of  liver  an'  kidney  trouble  an'  that  he 
is  liable  to  drap  off  any  day. 

"  I  am  one  of  them  that  believes  that  whatever  bou 
quets  we  have  for  the  dead  will  do  'em  mo'  good  if 
given  while  they  can  smell ;  an'  whatever  pretty  things 
we've  got  to  say  over  a  coffin  had  better  be  said  whilst 
the  deceased  is  up  an'  kickin'  around  an'  can  hear  —  an' 
so  Dave  is  pow'ful  sot  to  it  that  I  preach  his  fun'ral 
whilst  he's  alive.  An'  I  do  hope  that  next  Sunday 
you'll  all  come  an'  hear  it.  An'  all  the  bouquets  you 
expect  to  give  him  when  he  passes  away,  please  fetch 
with  you." 

To-day  Uncle  Dave  was  out,  dressed  in  his  long- 
tail  jeans  frock  suit  with  high  standing  collar  and  big 
black  stock.  His  face  had  been  cleanty  shaved,  and  his 
hair,  coming  down  to  his  shoulders,  was  cut  square  away 
around  his  neck  in  the  good  old-fashioned  way.  He  sat 

326 


A  LIVE  FUNERAL  827 

on  the  front  bench  and  looked  very  solemn  and  deeply 
impressed.  On  one  side  of  him  sat  Aunt  Sally,  and  on 
the  other,  Tilly ;  and  the  coon  dog,  which  followed  them 
everywhere,  sat  on  its  tail,  well  to  the  front,  looking  the 
very  essence  of  concentrated  solemnitjr. 

But  the  coon  dog  had  several  peculiar  idiosyncra 
sies  ;  one  of  them  was  that  he  was  always  very  deeply  af 
fected  by  music  —  especially  any  music  which  sounded 
anything  like  a  dinner  horn.  As  this  was  exactly  the 
way  Miss  Patsy  Butts'  organ  music  sounded,  no  sooner 
did  she  strike  up  the  first  notes  than  the  coon  dog 
joined  in,  with  his  long  dismal  howl  —  much  to  the 
disgust  of  Uncle  Dave  and  his  family. 

This  brought  things  to  a  standstill,  and  all  the 
Hillites  to  giggling,  while  Archie  B.  moved  up  and  took 
his  seat  with  the  mourners  immediately  behind  the  dog. 

Tilly  looked  reproachfully  at  Aunt  Sally ;  Aunt  Sally 
looked  reproachfully  at  Uncle  Dave,  who  passed  the  re 
proach  on-  to  the  dog. 

"  There  now,"  said  Uncle  Dave  —  "Sally  an'  Tilly 
both  said  so!  They  both  said  I  mustn't  let  him  come." 

He  gave  the  dog  a  punch  in  the  ribs  with  his  huge 
foot.  This  hushed  him  at  once. 

"  Be   quiet  Dave,"   said  the  Bishop,   sitting  near  - 
"  it  strikes  me  you're  pow'ful  lively  for  a  corpse.      It's 
natural  for  a  dog  to  howl  at  his  master's  fun'ral." 

The  coon  dog  had  come  out  intending  to  enter  fully 
into  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion,  and  when  the  organ 
started  again  he  promptly  joined  in. 

"  I'm  §orry,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  but  I'll  have  to  rise 
an'  put  the  chief  mourner  out." 


328         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

It  was  unnecessary,  for  the  chief  mourner  himself 
arose  just  then,  and  began  running  frantically  around 
the  pulpit  with  snaps,  howls  and  sundry  most  painful 
barks. 

Those  who  noticed  closely  observed  that  a  clothes-pin 
had  been  snapped  bitingly  on  the  very  tip  end  of  his 
tail,  and  as  he  finally  caught  his  bearing,  and  went 
down  the  aisle  and  out  of  the  door  with  a  farewell  howl, 
they  could  hear  him  tearing  toward  home,  quite  satis 
fied  that  live  funerals  weren't  the  place  for  him. 

What  he  wanted  was  a  dead  one. 

"Maw!"  said  Miss  Patsy  Butts—"!  wish  you'd 
look  after  Archie  B." 

Everybody  looked  at  Archie  B.,  who  looked  up  from 
a  New  Testament  in  which  he  was  deeply  interested, 
surprised  and  grieved. 

The  organ  started  up  again. 

But  it  grew  irksome  to  Miss  Samantha  Carewe  seated 
on  the  third  bench. 

"  Ma,"  she  whispered,  "  I've  heard  o'  fun'rals  in  Ire- 
Ian'  where  they  passed  around  refreshments  — d'ye 
reckin  this  is  goin'  to  be  that  kind?  I'm  gittin'  pow'ful 
hungry." 

"  Let  us  trust  that  the  Lord  will  have  it  so,"  said  her 
mother  devoutly. 

Amid  great  solemnity  the  Bishop  had  gone  into  the 
pulpit  and  was  preaching: 

"  It  may  be  a  little  onusual,"  he  said,  "  to  preach  a 
man's  fun'ral  whilst  he's  alive,  but  it  will  certn'ly  do 
him  mo'  good  than  to  preach  it  after  he's  dead.  If 


A  LIVE  FUNERAL  329 

we're  goin'  to  do  any  good  to  our  feller  man,  let's  do 
it  while  he's  alive. 

"  Kind  words  to  the  livin'  are  more  than  monuments 
to  the  dead. 

"  Come  to  think  about  it,  but  ain't  we  foolish  an'  hy 
pocritical  the  wray  wre  go  on  over  the  dead  that  we  have 
forgot  an'  neglected  whilst  they  lived? 

"  If  we'd  reverse  the  thing  how  many  a  po'  creature 
that  had  given  up  the  fight,  an'  shuffled  off  this  mortal 
coil  fur  lack  of  a  helpin'  han'  would  be  alive  to-day ! 

"  How  many  another  that  had  laid  down  an'  quit  in 
the  back  stretch  of  life  would  be  up  an'  fightin' !  Why, 
the  money  spent  for  flowers  an'  fun'rals  an'  monuments 
for  the  pulseless  dead  of  the  world  would  mighty  nigh 
feed  the  living  dead  that  are  always  with  us. 

"  What  fools  we  mortals  be !  Why,  we're  not  a  bit 
better  than  the  heathen  Chinee  that  we  love  to  send 
missionaries  to  and  call  all  kinds  of  hard  names.  The 
Chinee  put  sweet  cakes  an'  wine  an'  sech  on  the  graves 
of  their  departed,  an'  once  one  of  our  missionaries  asked 
his  servant,  Ching  Lu,  who  had  just  lost  his  brother  an' 
had  put  all  them  things  on  his  grave,  when  he  thought 
the  corpse  'ud  rise  up  an'  eat  them ;  an'  Ching  Lu  told 
him  he  thought  the  Chinee  corpse  'ud  rise  up  an'  eat 
his  sweetmeats  about  the  same  time  that  the  Melican 
man's  corpse  'ud  rise  up  an'  smell  all  the  bouquets  of 
sweet  flowers  spread  over  him. 

"  An'  there  we  are,  right  on  the  same  footin'  as  the 
heathen  an'  don't  know  it. 

"  David  Dickey,  the  subject  of  this  here  fun'ral  dis 
course,  was  born  on  the  fourth  day  of  July3  1810,  of 


330         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

pious,  godly  parrents.  Dave  as  a  child  was  always  a 
good  boy,  who  loved  his  parrents,  worked  diligently 
and  never  needed  a  lickin'  in  his  life  "• 

"  Hold  on,  Bishop,"  said  Uncle  Davy,  rising  and 
protesting  earnestly  — "  this  is  my  fun'ral  an'  I  ain't 
agoin'  to  have  nothin'  told  but  the  exact  facts :  Jes' 
alter  that  by  sayin'  I  was  a  tollerbul  good  boy,  tollerbul 
diligent,  with  a  big  sprinklin'  o'  meanness  an'  laziness 
in  me,  an'  that  my  old  daddy, —  God  bless  his  memory 
for  it  —  in  them  days  cleared  up  mighty  nigh  a  ten 
acre  lot  of  guv'ment  land  cuttin'  off  the  underbrush  for 
my  triflin'  hide." 

Uncle  Dave  sat  down.  The  Bishop  was  confused  a 
moment,  but  quickly  said :  "  Now  bretherin,  there's  an 
other  good  p'int  about  preachin'  a  man's  fun'ral  whilst 
he's  alive.  It  gives  the  corpse  a  chance  to  correct  any 
errors.  Why,  who'd  ever  have  thought  that  good  old 
Uncle  Dave  Dickey  was  that  triflin'  when  he  was  young? 
Much  obliged,  Dave,  much  obliged,  I'll  try  to  tell  the 
exact  facts  hereafter." 

Then  he  began  again : 

"  In  manner  Uncle  Dave  was  approachable  an'  with 
a  kind  heart  for  all  mankind,  an'  a  kind  word  an'  a 
helpin'  ban'  for  the  needy.  He  was  tollerbul  truthful  " 
—  went  on  the  Bishop  —  with  a  look  at  Uncle  Davy  as 
if  he  had  profited  by  previous  interruptions. 

"  Tell  it  as  it  was,  Hillard," —  nodded  Uncle  Dave, 
from  the  front  bench — "  jes'  as  it  was  —  no  lies  at 
my  fun'ral." 

"  Tollerbul  truthful,"  went  on  the  Bishop,  "  on  all 
subjects  he  wanted  to  tell  the  truth  about.  An'  I'm 


A  LIVE  FUNERAL  331 

proud  to  say,  bretherin,  that  after  fifty  odd  years  of 
intermate  acquantance  with  our  soon-to-be-deceased 
brother,  you  cu'd  rely  on  him  tellin'  the  truth  in  all 
things  except "- 

"  Tell  it  as  it  was,  Hillard  —  no  —  filigree  work  at 
my  fun'ral  -  "  said  Uncle  Dave. 

— "  Except,"  went  on  the  Bishop,  "  returnin'  any 
little  change  he  happen'd  to  borry  from  you,  or  swop- 
pin'  horses,  or  tellin'  the  size  of  the  fish  he  happened  to 
ketch.  On  them  p'ints,  my  bretherin,  the  lamented 
corpse  was  pow'ful  weak;  an'  I'm  sorry  to  have  to  tell 
it,  but  I've  been  warned,  as  you  all  kno',  to  speak  the 
exact  facts." 

"  Hillard  Watts,"  said  Uncle  Dave  rising  hotly  — 
"  that's  a  lie  an'  you  know  it !  " 

"  Sit  down,  Dave,"  said  the  Bishop  calmly,  "  I've 
been  preachin'  fun'rals  fur  fifty  years  an'  that  is  the 
fus'  time  I  ever  was  sassed  by  a  corpse.  You  know 
it's  so  an'  besides  I  left  out  one  thing.  You're  always 
tellin'  what  kinder  weather  it's  gwinter  be  to-morrow 
an'  missin'  it.  You  burnt  my  socks  off  forty  years  ago 
on  the  only  boss-trade  I  ever  had  with  you.  You  owe 
me  five  dollars  you  borrowed  ten  years  ago,  an*  you 
never  caught  a  half  pound  perch  in  yo'  life  that  you 
didn't  tell  us  the  nex'  day  it  was  a  fo'  pound  trout.  So 
set  down.  Oh,  I'm  tellin'  the  truth  without  any  filigree, 
Dave." 

Aunt  Sally  and  Tilly  pulled  Uncle  Dave  down  while 
they  conversed  with  him  earnestly.  Then  he  arose  and 
said: 

"  Hillard,  I  beg  yo'  pardon.      You've  spoken  the  truth 


332         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

—  Sally  and  Tilly  both  say  so.  I  tell  yo',  bretherin," 
he  said  turning  to  the  congregation  — "  it'd  be  a  good 
thing  if  we  c'ud  all  have  our  fun'ral  sermon  now  and 
then  correctly  told.  There  would  be  so  many  points 
brought  out  as  seen  by  our  neighbors  that  we  never 
saw  ourselves." 

"  The  subject  of  this  sermon  " — went  on  the  Bishop 
— "  the  lamented  corpse-to-be,  was  never  married  but 
once  —  to  his  present  loving  widow-to-be,  and  he  never 
had  any  love  affair  with  any  other  woman  —  she  bein' 
his  fust  an'  only  love  — 

"  Hillard,"   said  Uncle  Dave  rising,  "  I  hate  to  — " 

"  Set  down,  David  Dickey,"  whispered  Aunt  Sally, 
hotly,  as  she  hastily  jerked  him  back  in  his  seat  with  a 
snap  that  rattled  the  teeth  in  his  head : 

"  If  you  get  up  at  this  time  of  life  to  make  any  post 
mortem  an'  dyin'  declaration  on  that  subject  in  my 
presence,  ye'll  be  takin'  out  a  corpse  sho'  'miff !  " 

Uncle  Dave  very  promptly  subsided. 

"  An'  the  only  child  he's  had  is  the  present  beautiful 
daughter  that  sits  beside  him." 

Tilly  blushed. 

"  David,  I  am  very  sorry  to  say,  had  some  very 
serious  personal  faults.  He  always  slept  with  his  mouth 
open.  I've  knowed  him  to  snore  so  loud  after  dinner 
that  the  folks  on  the  adjoining  farm  thought  it  was  the 
dinner  horn." 

"Now  Hillard,"  said  Uncle  Dave,  rising-— "do  you 
think  it  necessary  to  bring  in  all  that?  " 

"  A  man's  fun'ral,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  ain't  intended 
to  do  him  any  good  —  it's  fur  the  coming  generation. 


A  LIVE  FUNERAL  333 

Boys  and  girls,  beware  of  sleepin'  with  yo'  mouth  open 
an'  eatin'  with  yo'  fingers  an'  drinkin'  yo'  coffee  out  of 
the  saucer,  an'  sayin'  them  molasses  an'  /  wouldn't  choose 
any  when  you're  axed  to  have  somethin'  at  the  table. 

"  Dave  Dickey  done  all  that. 

"  Brother  Dave  Dickey  had  his  faults  as  we  all  have. 
He  was  a  sprinklin'  of  good  an'  evil,  a  mixture  of  dili 
gence  an'  laziness,  a  brave  man  mostly  with  a  few  yaller 
crosses  in  him,  truthful  nearly  always,  an'  lyin'  mostly 
fur  fun  an'  from  habit ;  good  at  times  an'  bad  at  others, 
spiritual  at  times  when  it  looked  like  he  cu'd  see  right 
into  heaven's  gate,  an'  then  again  racked  with  great 
passions  of  the  flesh  that  swept  over  him  in  waves  of  hot 
desires,  until  it  seemed  that  God  had  forgotten  to  make 
him  anything  but  an  animal. 

"  Come  to  think  of  it,  an'  that's  about  the  way  with 
the  rest  of  us? 

"  But  he  aimed  to  do  right,  an'  he  strove  constantly 
to  do  right,  an'  he  prayed  constantly  fur  help  to  do 
right,  an'  that's  the  main  thing.  If  he  fell  he  riz  agin, 
fur  he  had  a  Hand  outstretched  in  his  faith  that  cu'd 
lift  him  up,  an'  knew  that  he  could  go  to  a  Father  that 
always  forgave  —  an'  that's  the  main  thing.  Let  us 
remember,  when  we  see  the  faults  and  vices  of  others  — 
that  we  see  only  what  they've  done  —  as  Bobby  Burns 
says,  we  don't  kno'  what  they  have  resisted.  Give  'em 
credit  for  that  —  maybe  it  over-balances.  Balancin' 
—  ah,  my  bretherin,  that's  a  gran'  thing.  It's  the  thing 
on  which  the  whole  Universe  hangs  —  the  law  of  bal 
ance.  The  pendulum  every  whar  swings  as  fur  back 
as  it  did  furra'd,  an'  the  very  earth  hangs  in  space  by 


334-         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

this  same  law.  An'  it  holds  in  the  moral  worl'  as  well  as 
the  t'other  one  —  only  man  is  sech  a  liar  an'  so  bigoted 
he  can't  see  it.  But  here  comes  into  the  worl'  a  man 
or  woman  filled  so  full  of  passion  of  every  sort, —  pas 
sions  they  didn't  make  themselves  either  —  regular 
thunder  clouds  in  the  sky  of  life.  Big  with  the  rain, 
the  snow,  the  hail  —  the  lightning  of  passion.  A 
spark,  a  touch,  a  strong  wind  an'  they  explode,  they  fall 
from  grace,  so  to  speak.  But  what  have  they  done 
that  we  ain't  never  heard  of?  All  we've  noticed  is  the 
explosion,  the  fall,  the  blight.  They  have  stirred  the 
sky,  whilst  the  little  white  pale-livered  untempted  clouds 
floated  on  the  zephyrs  —  they've  brought  rain  that  made 
the  earth  glad,  they've  cleared  the  air  in  the  very  fall 
of  their  lightnin'.  The  lightnin'  came  —  the  fall  • — 
but  give  'em  credit  fur  the  other.  The  little  namby- 
pamby,  white  livered,  zephyr  clouds  that  is  so  divine 
an'  useless,  might  float  forever  an'  not  even  make  a 
shadow  to  hide  men  from  the  sun. 

"  So  credit  the  fallen  man  or  woman,  big  with  life 
an'  passion,  with  the  good  they've  done  when  you  debit 
'em  with  the  evil.  Many  a  'oman  so  ugly  that  she 
wasn't  any  temptation  even  for  Sin  to  mate  with  her, 
has  done  more  harm  with  her  slanderin'  tongue  an'  hy 
pocrisy  than  a  fallen  'oman  has  with  her  whole  bod}7. 

"  We're  mortals  an'  we  can't  he'p  it  —  animals,  an' 
God  made  us  so.  But  we'll  never  fall  to  rise  no  mo'  'less 
we  fail  to  reach  up  fur  he'p. 

"  What  then  is  our  little  sins  of  the  flesh  to  the  big 
goodness  of  the  faith  that  is  in  us? 

"  For  forty  years  Uncle  Dave  has  been  a  consistent 


A  LIVE  FUNERAL  335 

member  of  the  church  —  some  church  —  it  don't  mat 
ter  which.  For  forty  years  he  has  trod  the  narrer  path, 
stumpin'  his  toe  now  an'  then,  but  allers  gettin'  up  agin, 
for  forty  years  he  has  he'ped  others  all  he  cu'd,  been 
charitable  an'  forgivin',  as  hones'  as  the  temptation 
would  permit,  an'  only  a  natural  lie  now  an'  then  as  to 
the  weather  or  the  size  of  a  fish,  trustin'  in  God  to  make 
it  all  right. 

"  An'  now,  in  the  twilight  of  life,  when  his  sun  is 
'most  set  an'  the  dews  of  kindness  come  with  old  age, 
right  gladly  will  he  wake  up  some  mornin'  in  a  better 
Ian',  the  scrub  in  him  all  bred  out,  the  yaller  streak 
gone,  the  sins  of  the  flesh  left  behind.  An'  that's 
about  the  way  with  the  most  of  us, —  no  better  an'  may 
be  wuss  —  Amen  !  " 

Uncle  Dave  was  weeping: 

"Oh,  Hillard  —  Hillard,"  he  said,  "say  all  that 
over  agin  about  the  clouds  an'  the  thunder  of  passion  — 
say  all  the  last  part  over  agin  —  it  sounds  so  good !  " 

The  congregation  thronged  around  him  and  shook  his 
hand.  They  gave  him  the  flowers  they  had  brought; 
they  told  him  how  much  they  thought  of  him,  how 
sorry  they  would  be  to  see  him  dead,  how  they  had  al 
ways  intended  to  come  to  see  him,  but  had  been  so  busy, 
and  to  cheer  up  that  he  wasn't  dead  yet. 

"  No  "•  —  said  Uncle  Dave,  weeping  — "  no,  an'  now 
since  I  see  how  much  you  all  keer  fur  me  I  don't  b'lieve 
—  I  —  I  wanter  die  at  all." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

JACK  AND   THE   LITTLE  ONlSS 

NO  one  would  ever  have  supposed  that  the  big 
blacksmith  at  the  village  was  Jack  Bracken. 
All  the  week  he  worked  at  his  trade  —  so  full 
of  his  new  life  that  it  shone  continually  in  his  face  — 
his  face  strong  and  stern,  but  kindly.  With  his 
leathern  apron  on,  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  his  hairy  breast 
bare  and  shining  in  the  open  collar,  physically  he 
looked  more  like  an  ancient  Roman  than  a  man  of 
to-day. 

His  greatest  pleasure  was  to  entice  little  children  to 
his  shop,  talking  to  them  as  he  worked.  To  get  them 
to  come,  he  began  by  keeping  a  sack  of  ginger  snaps 
in  his  pockets.  And  the  villagers  used  to  smile  at  the 
sight  of  the  little  ones  around  him,  especially  after 
sunset  when  his  work  was  finished.  Often  a  half  dozen 
children  would  be  in  his  lap  or  on  his  knees  at  once,  and 
the  picture  was  so  beautiful  that  people  would  stop  and 
look,  and  wonder  what  the  big  strong  man  saw  in  all 
those  noisy  children  to  love. 

They  did  not  know  that  this  man  had  spent  his  life  a 
hunted  thing ;  that  the  strong  instinct  of  home  and  chil 
dren  had  been  smothered  in  him,  that  his  own  little  boy 
had  been  taken,  and  that  to  him  every  child  was  a 
saint. 


JACK  AND  THE  LITTLE  ONES          337 

But  they  soon  learned  that  the  great  kind-hearted, 
simple  man  was  a  tiger  when  aroused.  A  small  child 
from  the  mill,  sickly  and  timid,  was  among  those  who 
stopped  one  morning  to  get  one  of  his  cakes. 

Not  knowing  it  was  a  mill  child  on  its  way  to  work, 
Jack  detained  it  in  all  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  and  the 
little  thing  was  not  in  a  hurry  to  go.  Indeed,  it  forgot 
all  about  the  mill  until  its  father  happened  along  an 
hour  after  it  should  have  been  at  work.  His  name  was 
Joe  Hopper,  a  ne'er-do-well  whose  children,  by  working 
at  the  mill,  supported  him  in  idleness. 

Catching  the  child,  he  berated  it  and  boxed  its  ears 
soundly.  Jack  was  at  work,  but  turning,  and  seeing 
the  child  chastised,  he  came  at  the  man  with  quiet  fury. 
With  one  huge  hand  in  Joe  Hopper's  collar,  he  boxed 
his  ears  until  he  begged  for  mercy.  "  Now  go,"  said 
Jack,  as  he  released  him,  "  an'  know  hereafter  how  it 
feels  for  the  strong  to  beat  the  weak." 

Of  all  things,  Jack  wanted  to  talk  with  Marga 
ret  Adams ;  but  he  could  never  make  up  his  mind  to  seek 
her  out,  though  his  love  for  this  woman  was  the  love  of 
his  life.  Often  at  night  he  would  slip  away  from  the 
old  preacher's  cabin  and  his  cot  by  Captain  Tom's  bed, 
to  go  out  and  walk  around  her  little  cottage  and  see 
that  all  was  safe. 

James,  her  boy,  peculiarly  interested  Jack,  but  it 
was  some  time  before  he  came  to  know  him.  He  knew 
the  boy  was  Richard  Travis's  son,  and  that  he  alone  had 
stood  between  him  and  his  happiness.  That  but  for 
him  —  the  son  of  his  mother  —  he  would  never  have 
been  the  outlaw  that  he  was,  and  even  now  but  for  this 
22 


338         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

son  he  would  marry  her.  But  outlaw  that  he  was, 
Jack  Bracken  had  no  free-booting  ideas  of  love.  Never 
did  man  revere  purity  in  woman  more  than  he  —  that 
one  thing  barred  Margaret  Adams  forever  from  his  life, 
though  not  from  his  heart. 

He  felt  that  he  would  hate  James  Adams ;  but  instead 
he  took  to  the  lad  at  once  —  his  fine  strange  ways,  his 
dignity,  courage,  his  very  aloofness  and  the  sorrow  he 
saw  there,  drew  him  to  the  strange,  silent  lad. 

One  day  while  at  work  in  his  shop  he  looked  up  and 
saw  the  boy  standing  in  the  door  watching  him  closely 
and  with  evident  admiration. 

"  Come  in,  my  lad,"  said  Jack,  laying  down  his  big 
hammer.  "  What  is  yo'  name  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  that  makes  any  difference," 
he  replied  smiling,  "  I  might  ask  you  what  is  yours." 

Jack  flushed,  but  he  pitied  the  lad. 

He  smiled :  "  I  guess  you  an'  I  could  easily  under- 
stan'  each  other,  lad  —  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  you  to  fix  my  pistol  for  me,  sir  —  and  — 
and  I  haven't  anything  to  pay  you." 

Jack  looked  it  over  —  the  old  duelling  pistol.  He 
knew  at  once  it  was  Colonel  Jeremiah  Travis's.  The 
boy  had  gotten  it  somehow.  The  hair-spring  trigger 
was  out  of  fix.  Jack  soon  repaired  it  and  said: 

"  Now,  son,  she's  all  right,  and  not  a  cent  do  I  charge 
you." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  said  the  boy,  flushing.  "  I 
have  no  money,  but  I  want  to  pay  you,  for  I  need  this 
pistol  —  need  it  very  badly." 

"To  shoot  rabbits?"  smiled  Jack. 


JACK  AND  THE  LITTLE  ONES          339 

The  boy  did  not  smile.  He  ran  his  hand  in  his 
pocket  and  handed  Jack  a  thin  gold  ring,  worn  al 
most  to  a  wire ;  but  Jack  paled,  and  his  hand  shook 
when  he  took  it,  for  he  recognized  the  little  ring  he 
himself  had  given  Margaret  Adams  years  ago. 

"  It's  my  mother's,"  said  the  boy,  "  and  some  man 
gave  it  to  her  once  —  long  ago  —  for  she  is  foolish 
about  it.  Now,  of  late,  I  think  I  have  found  out  who 
that  man  was,  and  I  hate  him  as  I  do  hell  itself.  I  am 
determined  she  shall  never  sec  it  again.  So  take  it,  or 
I'll  give  it  to  somebody  else." 

"  If  you  feel  that  way  about  it,  little  5un,"  said  Jack 
kindly,  "  I'll  keep  it  for  you,"  and  he  put  the  precious 
relic  in  his  pocket. 

"  Now,  look  here,  lad,"  he  said,  changing  the  subject, 
"  but  do  you  know  you've  got  an'  oncommon  ac'rate  gun 
in  this  old  weepon?  " 

The  boy  smiled  —  interested. 

"  It's  the  salt  of  the  earth,"  said  Jack,  "  an'  I'll  bet 
its  stood  'twixt  many  a  gentleman  and  death.  Can  you 
shoot  true,  little  'un?" 

"  Only  fairly  —  can  you  ?  " 

"  Some  has  been  kind  enough  to  give  me  that  char 
acter  "  —  he  said  promptly.  "  Want  me  to  give  you  a 
few  lessons  ?  " 

The  boy  warmed  to  him  at  once.  Jack  took  him  be 
hind  the  shop,  tied  a  twine  string  between  two  trees 
and  having  loaded  the  old  pistol  with  cap  and  powder 
and  ball,  he  stepped  off  thirty  paces  and  shot  the  string 
in  twain. 

"  Good,"  said  the  boy  smiling,  and  Jack  handed  him 


340         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

the  pistol  with  a  boyish  flush  of  pride  in  his  own  face. 

"  Now,  little  'un,  it's  this  away  in  shootin'  a  weepon 
like  this  —  it's  the  aim  that  counts  most.  But  with 
my  Colts  now  —  the  self-actin'  ones  —  you've  got  to 
cal'c'late  chiefly  on  another  thing  —  a  kinder  thing  that 
ain't  in  the  books  —  the  instinct  that  makes  the  han'  an' 
the  eye  act  together  an'  'lowin',  at  the  same  time,  for 
the  leverage  on  the  trigger."  The  lad's  face  glowed 
with  excitement.  Jack  saw  it  and  said :  "Now  I'll 
give  you  a  lesson  to-day.  Would  you  like  to  shoot  at 
that  tree?  "  he  asked  kindly. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  could  hit  the  string  ?  "  asked  the 
boy  innocently. 

Jack  had  to  smile.  "  In  time  —  little  'un  —  in  time 
you  might.  You're  a  queer  lad,"  he  said  again  laugh 
ing.  "  You  aim  pretty  high." 

"  Oh,  then  I'll  never  hit  below  my  mark.  Let  me  try 
the  string,  please." 

To  humor  him,  Jack  tied  the  string  again,  and  the 
boy  stepped  up  to  the  mark  and  without  taking  aim, 
but  with  that  instinct  which  Jack  had  just  mentioned, 
that  bringing  of  the  hand  and  eye  together  uncon 
sciously,  he  fired  and  the  string  flew  apart. 

"You  damned  little  cuss,"  shouted  Jack  enthusi 
astically,  as  he  grabbed  the  boy  and  hugged  him  -  "  to 
make  a  sucker  of  me  that  way!  To  take  me  in  like 
that!" 

"  Oh,"  said  the  boy,  "  I  do  nothing  but  shoot  this 
tiling  from  morning  till  night.  It  was  my  great  grand 
father's." 

And  from  that  time  the  two  were  one. 


JACK  AND  THE  LITTLE  ONES         341 

But  another  thing  happened  which  cemented  the  tie 
more  strongly.  One  Saturday  afternoon  Jack  took  a 
crowd  of  his  boy  friends  down  to  the  river  for  a  plunge. 
The  afternoon  was  bright  and  warm;  the  frost  of  the 
morning  making  the  water  delightful  for  a  short 
plunge.  It  was  great  sport.  They  all  ohe}7ed  him  and 
swam  in  certain  places  he  marked  off  —  all  except 
James  Adams.  He  boldly  swam  out  into  the  deep  cur 
rent  of  the  river  and  came  near  losing  his  life.  Jack 
plunged  in  in  time  to  reach  him,  but  had  to  dive  to  get 
him,  he  having  sunk  the  third  time.  It  required  hard 
w7ork  to  revive  him  on  the  bank,  but  the  man  was  strong 
and  swung  the  lad  about  by  the  heels  till  he  got  the 
water  out  of  his  lungs,  and  his  circulation  started  again. 
James  opened  his  eyes  at  last,  and  Jack  said,  smiling: 
"  That's  all  right,  little  'un,  but  I  feared  onct,  you  was 
gone." 

He  took  the  boy  home,  and  then  it  was  that  for  the 
first  time  for  fifteen  years  he  saw  and  talked  to  the 
woman  he  loved. 

"  Mother,"  said  the  boy,  "  this  is  the  new  blacksmith 
that  I've  been  telling  you  about,  and  he  is  great  guns 
—  just  pulled  me  out  of  the  bottom  of  the  Tennessee 
river." 

Jack  laughed  and  said :  "  The  little  Jun  ca'n't  swim 
as  well  as  he  can  shoot,  ma'am." 

There  was  no  sign  of  recognition  between  them,  noth 
ing  to  show  they  had  ever  seen  each  other  before,  but 
Jack  saw  her  eyes  grow  tender  at  the  first  word  he  ut 
tered,  and  he  knew  that  Margaret  Adams  loved  him 
then,  even  as  she  had  loved  him  years  ago. 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

He  stayed  but  a  short  while,  and  James  Adams  never 
saw  the  silent  battle  that  was  waged  in  the  eyes  of  each. 
How  Jack  Bracken  devoured  her  with  his  eyes, —  the 
comely  figure,  the  cleanliness  and  sweetness  of  the  little 
cottage  —  his  painful  hungry  look  for  this  kind  of 
peace  and  contentment  —  the  contentment  of  love. 

And  James  noticed  that  his  mother  was  greatly  em 
barrassed,  even  to  agitation,  but  he  supposed  it  was  be 
cause  of  his  narrow  escape  from  drowning,  and  it 
touched  him  even  to  caressing  her,  a  thing  he  had  never 
done  before. 

It  hurt  Jack  —  that  caress.  Richard  Travis's  boy  — 
she  would  have  been  his  but  for  him.  He  felt  a  ter 
rible  bitterness  arising.  He  turned  abruptly  to  go. 

Margaret  had  not  spoken.  Then  she  thanked  him 
and  bade  James  change  his  clothes.  As  the  boy  went 
in  the  next  room  to  do  this,  she  followed  Jack  to  the 
little  gate  and  stood  pale  and  suffering,  but  not  able  to 
speak. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  giving  her  his  hand  — "  you 
know,  Margaret,  my  life  —  why  I  am  here,  to  be  near 
you, —  how  I  love  you,  have  loved  you." 

"  And  how  I  love  you,  Jack,"  she  said  simply. 
The  words  went  through  him  with  a  fierce  sweetness 
that  shook  him. 

"  My  God  —  don?t  say  that  —  it  hurts  me  so,  after 
—  what  you've  done." 

"  Jack,"  she  whispered  sadly  — "  some  day  you'll 
know  —  some  day  you'll  understand  that  there  are 
things  in  life  greater  even  than  the  selfishness  of  your 
own  heart's  happiness." 


JACK  AND  THE  LITTLE  ONES         348 

"  They  can't  be,"  said  Jack  bitterly  — "  that's  what 
all  life's  for  —  heart  happiness  —  love.  Why,  hunger 
and  love,  them's  the  fust  things;  them's  the  man  an' 
the  woman;  them's  the  law  unto  theyselves,  the  animal, 
the  instinct,  the  beast  that's  in  us;  the  things  that 
makes  God  excuse  all  else  we  do  to  get  them  - —  we  have 
to  have  'em.  He  made  us  so ;  we  have  to  have  'em  — 
it's  His  own  doin'." 

"  But,"  she  said  sweetly  — "  suppose  it  meant  another 
to  be  despised,  reviled,  made  infamous." 

"  They'd  have  to  be,"  he  said  sternly,  for  he  was 
thinking  of  Richard  Travis  — "  they'd  have  to  be,  for 
he  made  his  own  life." 

"  Oh,  you  do  not  understand,"  she  cried.  "  And  you 
cannot  now  —  but  wait  —  wait,  and  it  will  be  plain. 
Then  you'll  know  all  and  —  that  I  love  you,  Jack." 

He  turned  bitterly  and  walked  away. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   BROKEN   THREAD 

FOR  the  first  time  in  years,  the  next  Sunday  the 
little    church   on   the   mountain   side   was    closed, 
and    all    Cottontown    wondered.     Never    before 
had  the  old  man  missed  a  Sabbath  afternoon  since  the 
church  had  been  built.     This  was  to  have  been  Baptist 
day,  and  that  part  of  his    congregation    was  sorely  dis 
appointed. 

For  an  hour  Bud  Billings  had  stood  by  the  little  gate 
looking  down  the  big  stretch  of  sandy  road,  expecting 
to  see  the  familiar  shuffling,  blind  old  roan  coming: 

"  Sum'pins  happened  to  Ben  Butler,"  said  Bud  at 
last  —  and  at  thought  of  such  a  calamity,  he  sat  down 

and  shed  tears. 

His  simple  heart  yearned  for  pity,  and  feeling  some 
thing  purring  against  him  he  picked  up  the  cat  and 
coddled  it. 

"You  seem  to  be  cultivatin'  that  cat  again,  Bud 
Billings,"  came  a  sharp  voice  from  the  cabin  window. 

Bud  dropped  the  animal  quickly  and  struck  out  across 
the  mountain  for  the  Bishop's  cabin. 

But  he  was  not  prepared  for  the  shock  that  came  to 
his  simple  heart :  Shiloh  was  dying  —  the  Bishop  him 
self  told  him  so  —  the  Bishop  with  a  strange,  set,  hard 
look  in  his  eyes  — a  look  which  Bud  had  never  seen 

344 


THE  BROKEN  THREAD  345 

there  before,  for  it  was  sorrow  mingled  with  defiance  — 
in  that  a  great  wrong  had  been  done  and  done  over  his 
protest.  It  was  culpable  sorrow  too,  somewhat,  in  that 
he  had  not  prevented  it,  and  a  heart-hardening  sorrow 
in  that  it  took  the  best  that  he  loved. 

"She  jes'  collapsed,  Bud  —  sudden't  like  —  wilted 
like  a  vi'let  that's  stepped  on,  an'  the  Doctor  says  she's 
got  no  sho'  at  all,  ther'  bein'  nothin'  to  build  on.  She 
don't  kno'  nothin' —  ain't  knowed  nothin'  since  last 
night,  an'  she  thinks  she's  in  the  mill  —  my  God,  it's 
awful!  The  little  thing  keeps  reaching  out  in  her  de 
lirium  an'  tryin'  to  piece  the  broken  threads,  an'  then 
she  falls  back  pantin'  on  her  pillow  an'  says,  pitful  like 
— *  the  thread  —  the  thread  is  broken!  '  an'  that's  jes' 
it,  Bud  —  the  thread  is  broken  !  " 

Tears  were  running  down  the  old  man's  cheeks,  and 
that  strange  thing  which  now  and  then  came  up  in  Bud's 
throat  and  stopped  him  from  talking  came  again.  He 
walked  out  and  sat  under  a  tree  in  the  yard.  He  looked 
at  the  other  children  sitting  around  stupid  —  numbed 
—  with  the  vague  look  in  their  faces  which  told  that  a 
sorrow  had  fallen,  but  without  the  sensitiveness  to  know 
or  care  where.  He  saw  a  big  man,  bronzed  and  hard- 
featured,  but  silent  and  sorrowful,  walking  to  and  fro. 
Now  and  then  he  would  stop  and  look  earnestly  through 
the  window  at  the  little  still  figure  on  the  bed,  and  then 
Bud  would  hear  him  say  — "  like  little  Jack  —  like  little 
Jack." 

The  sun  went  down  —  the  stars  came  up  —  but  Bud 
sat  there.  He  could  do  nothing,  but  he  wanted  to  be 
there. 


346         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

When  the  lamp  was  lighted  in  the  cabin  he  could  see 
all  within  the  home  and  that  an  old  man  held  on  a  large 
pillow  in  his  lap  a  little  child,  and  that  he  carried  her 
around  from  window  to  window  for  air,  and  that  the 
child's  eyes  were  fixed,  and  she  was  whiter  than  the  pil 
low.  He  also  saw  an  old  woman,  Ian  tern- jawed  and 
ghostly,  tidying  around  and  she  mumbling  and  grum 
bling  because  no  one  would  give  the  child  any  turpen 
tine. 

And  still  Bud  sat  outside,  with  that  lump  in  his  throat, 
that  thing  that  would  not  let  him  speak. 

Late  at  night  another  man  came  up  with  saddle  bags, 
and  hitching  his  horse  within  a  few  feet  of  Bud,  walked 
into  the  cabin. 

He  was  a  kindly  man,  and  he  stopped  in  the  doorway 
and  looked  at  the  old  man,  sitting  with  the  sick  child 
in  his  lap.  Then  he  pulled  a  chair  up  beside  the  old 
man  and  took  the  child's  thin  wrist  in  his  hand.  He 
shook  his  head  and  said: 

"  No  use,  Bishop  —  better  lay  her  on  the  bed  —  she 
can't  live  two  hours." 

Then  he  busied  himself  giving  her  some  drops  from 
a  vial. 

"  When  you  get  through  with  your  remedy  and  give 
her  up,"  said  the  old  man  slowly  — "  I'm  gwinter  try 
mine." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  the  old  man  sorrowfully,  and 
after  a  while  he  went  out  and  rode  home. 

Then  the  old  man  sent  them  all  to  bed.  He  alone 
would  watch  the  little  spark  go  out. 

And  Bud  alone  in  the  vard  saw  it  all.      He  knew  he 


THE  BROKEN  THREAD  347 

should  go  home  —  that  it  was  now  past  midnight,  but 
somehow  he  felt  that  the  Bishop  might  need  him. 

He  saw  the  moon  go  down,  and  the  big  constellations 
shine  out  clearer.  Now  and  then  he  could  see  the  old 
nurse  reach  over  and  put  his  ear  to  the  child's  mouth 
to  see  if  it  yet  breathed.  But  Bud  thought  maybe  he 
was  listening  for  it  to  speak,  for  he  could  see  the  old 
man's  lips  moving  as  he  did  when  he  prayed  at  church. 
And  Bud  could  not  understand  it,  but  never  before  in 
his  life  did  he  feel  so  uplifted,  as  he  sat  and  watched  the 
old  man  holding  the  little  child  and  praying.  And  all 
the  hours  that  he  sat  there,  Bud  saw  that  the  old  man 
was  praying  as  he  had  never  prayed  before.  The  in 
tensity  of  it  increased  and  began  to  be  heard,  and  then 
Bud  crept  up  to  the  window  and  listened,  for  he  dearly 
loved  to  hear  the  Bishop,  and  amid  the  tears  that  ran 
down  his  own  cheek,  and  the  quick  breathing  which  came 
quicker  and  quicker  from  the  little  child  in  the  lap,  Bud 
heard : 

"  Save  her,  oil,  God,  an'  if  I've  done  any  little  thing 
in  all  my  po9  an9  blunderin'  life  that's  entitled  to  credit 
at  Yo9  han's,  give  it  now  to  little  Shiloh,  for  You  can 
if  You  will.  If  there's  any  credit  to  my  account  in  the 
Book  of  Heaven,  hand  it  out  now  to  the  little  one  robbed 
of  her  all  right  up  to  the  door  of  death.  She  that  is 
named  Shiloh,  which  means  rest.  Do  it,  oil,  God, — 
take  it  from  my  account  if  she  ain't  got  none  yet  her- 
se'f,  an9  I  swear  to  You  with  the  faith  of  Abraham  that 
henceforth  I  will  live  to  light  a  fire-brand  in  this  valley 
that  will  burn  out  this  child  slavery,  upheld  now  by  ig- 


848         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

norance  and  the  greed  of  the  gold  lovers.     Save  little 
Shiloh,  for  You  can" 

Bud  watched  through  the  crisis,  the  shorter  and 
shorter  breaths,  the  struggle  —  the  silence  when,  only  by 
holding  the  lighted  candle  to  her  mouth,  could  the  old 
man  tell  whether  she  lived  or  not.  And  Bud  stood  out 
side  and  watched  his  face,  lit  up  like  a  saint  in  the  light 
of  the  candle  falling  on  his  silvery  hair,  whiter  than 
the  white  sand  of  Sand  Mountain,  a  stern,  strong  face 
with  lips  which  never  ceased  moving  in  prayer,  the  eyes 
riveted  on  the  little  fluttering  lips.  And  watching  the 
stern,  solemn  lips  set,  as  Bud  had  often  seen  the  white 
stern  face  of  Sunset  Rock,  when  the  clouds  lowered 
around  it,  suddenly  he  saw  them  relax  and  break  silently, 
gently,  almost  imperceptibly  into  a  smile  which  made 
the  slubber  think  the  parting  sunset  had  fallen  there ; 
and  Bud  gripped  the  window-sill  outside,  and  swallowed 
and  swallowed  at  the  thing  in  his  throat,  and  stood  terse 
ly  wiggling  on  his  strained  tendons,  and  then  almost 
shouted  when  he  saw  the  smile  break  all  over  the  old 
man's  face  and  light  up  his  eyes  till  the  candle's  flicker 
ing  light  looked  pale,  and  saw  him  bow  his  head  and 
heard  him  say : 

"  Lord   God    Almighty     .     .     .     My    God 
My  own  God     .     .     .     an'  You  ain't  never  gone  bach 
on  me  yet.     ...     *  Bless  the  Lord  all  my  soul,  an* 
all  that  is  within  me;  bless  His  Holy  Name!  ' 

Bud  could  not  help  it.  He  laughed  out  hysterically. 
And  then  the  old  face,  still  smiling,  looked  surprised 
at  the  window  and  said :  "  Go  home,  Bud.  God  is  the 
Great  Doctor,  an'  He  has  told  me  she  shall  live." 


THE  BROKEN  THREAD  349 

Then,  as  he  turned  to  go,  his  heart  stood  still,  for  he 
heard  Shiloh  say  in  her  little  piping  child  voice,  but,  oh, 
so  distinctly,  and  so  sweetly,  like  a  hird  in  the  forest: 

"  Pap,  sech  a  sweet  dream  —  an'  I  went  right  up  to 
the  gate  of  heaven  an'  the  angel  smiled  an'  kissed  me 
an'  sed: 

"  *  Go  back,  little  Shiloh  —  not  yet  —  not  yet ! '  " 

Then  Bud  slipped  off  in  the  dawn  of  the  coming 
light. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

GOD    WILL   PROVIDE 

IN  a  few  days  Shiloh  was  up,  but  the  mere  shadow 
of  a  little  waif,  following  the  old  man  around  the 
place.  She  needed  rest  and  good  food  and  clothes ; 
and  Bull  Run  and  Seven  Days  and  Appomattox  and 
Atlanta  needed  them,  and  where  to  get  them  was  the 
problem  which  confronted  the  grandfather. 

Shiloh's  narrow  escape  from  death  had  forever  set 
tled  the  child-labor  question  with  him  —  he  would  starve, 
"  by  the  Grace  of  God,"  as  he  expressed  it,  before  one 
of  them  should  ever  go  into  the  mill  again. 

He  had  a  bitter  quarrel  about  it  with  Mrs.  Watts; 
but  the  good  old  man's  fighting  blood  was  up  at  last  — 
that  hatred  of  child-slavery,  which  had  been  so  long 
choked  by  the  smoke  of  want,  now  burst  into  a  blaze 
when  the  shock  of  it  came  in  Shiloh's  collapse  —  a  blaze 
which  was  indeed  destined  "  to  light  the  valley  with  a 
torch  of  fire." 

On  the  third  day  Jud  Carpenter  came  out  to  see 
about  it;  but  at  sight  of  him  the  old  man  took  down 
from  the  rack  over  the  hall  door  the  rifle  he  had  carried 
through  the  war,  and  with  a  determined  gesture  he 
stopped  the  employment  agent  at  the  gate :  "  I  am  a 
man  of  God,  Jud  Carpenter,"  he  said  in  a  strange  voice, 
rounded  with  a  deadly  determination,  "  but  in  the  name 

350 


GOD  WILL  PROVIDE  351 

of  God  an'  humanity,  if  you  come  into  that  gate  after 
my  little  'uns,  I'll  kill  you  in  yo'  tracks,  jes'  a*  a  bis'n 
bull  'ud  stamp  the  life  out  of  a  prowlin'  coyote." 

And  Jud  Carpenter  went  back  to  town  and  spread  the 
report  that  the  old  man  was  a  maniac,  that  he  had  lost 
his  mind  since  Shiloh  came  so  near  dying. 

The  problem  which  confronted  the  old  man  was  se 
rious. 

"  O  Jack,  Jack,"  he  said  one  night,  "  if  I  jes'  had 
some  of  that  gold  you  had !  " 

Jack  replied  by  laying  ten  silver  dollars  in  the  old 
man's  hand. 

"  I  earned  it," —  he  said  simply  — "  this  week  — 
shoeing  horses  —  it's  the  sweetest  money  I  ever  got." 

"  Why,  Jack,"  said  the  Bishop  — "  this  will  feed  us 
for  a  week.  Come  here,  Tabitha,"  he  called  cheerily  — 
"  come  an'  see  what  happens  to  them  that  cast  their 
bread  upon  the  waters.  We  tuck  in  this  outcast  an' 
now  behold  our  bread  come  back  ag'in." 

The  old  woman  came  up  and  took  it  gingerly.  She 
bit  each  dollar  to  test  it,  remarking  finally :  "  Why, 
hit's  genuwine  !  " — 

Jack  laughed. 

"  Why,  hit's  mo'  money'n  I've  seed  fur  years,"  she 
said  — "  I  won't  hafter  hunt  fur  'sang  roots  to-morrow." 

"  Jack,"  said  the  Bishop,  after  the  others  had  retired, 
and  the  two  men  sat  in  Captain  Tom's  cabin  — "  Jack, 
I've  been  thinkin'  an'  thinkin' —  I  must  make  some 
money." 

"  How  much  ?  "  asked  Jack. 

"  A  thousand  or  two." 


352         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

'  That's  a  lot  of  money,"  said  the  outlaw  quickly. 
"  A  heap  fur  you  to  need." 

"  It's  not  fur  me,"  he  said  — "  I  don't  need  it  —  I 
wouldn't  have  it  for  myself.  It's  for  him  —  see !  "  he 
pointed  to  the  sleeping  man  on  the  low  cot.  "  Jack, 
I've  been  talkin'  to  the  Doctor  —  he  examined  Cap'n 
Tom's  head,  and  he  says  it'd  be  an  easy  job  —  that  it's 
a  shame  it  ain't  been  done  bef o* —  that  in  a  city  to  the 
North, —  he  gave  me  the  name  of  a  surgeon  there  who 
could  take  that  pressure  from  his  head  and  make  him 
the  man  he  was  bef o' —  the  man,  mind  you,  the  man  he 
was  befo'." 

Jack  sat  up  excited.     His  eyes  glittered. 

"  Then  there's  Shiloh,"  went  on  the  old  man  — "  it'll 
mean  life  to  her  too  —  life  to  git  away  from  the  mill. 

"  Cap'n  Tom  and  Shiloh  —  I  must  have  it,  Jack  — 
I  must  have  it.  God  will  provide  a  way.  I'd  give  my 
home  —  I'd  give  everything  —  just  to  save  them  two  — 
Cap'n  Tom  and  little  Shiloh." 

He  felt  a  touch  on  his  shoulder  and  looked  up. 

Jack  Bracken  stood  before  him,  clutching  the  handle 
of  his  big  Colt's  revolver,  and  his  hat  was  pulled  low 
over  his  eyes.  He  was  flushed  and  panting.  A  glitter 
was  in  his  eyes,  the  glitter  of  the  old  desperado  spirit 
returned. 

"  Bishop,"  he  said,  "  ever5  now  and  then  it  comes 
over  me  ag'in,  comes  over  me  —  the  old  dare-devil  feel- 
in'."  He  held  up  his  pistol :  "  All  week  I've  missed 
somethin'.  Last  night  I  fingered  it  in  my  sleep." 

He  pressed  it  tenderly.  "  Jes'  you  say  the  word," 
he  whispered,  "  an'  in  a  few  hours  I'll  be  back  here  with 


GOD  WILL  PROVIDE  353 

the  coin.  Shipton's  bank  is  dead  easy  an'  he  is  a  money 
devil  with  a  cold  heart."  The  old  man  laughed  and 
took  the  revolver  from  him. 

"  It's  hard,  I  know,  Jack,  to  give  up  old  ways.  I 
must  have  made  po'  Cap'n  Tom's  and  Shiloh's  case  out 
terrible  to  tempt  you  like  that.  But  not  even  for  them 
• —  no  —  no  —  not  even  for  them.  Set  down." 

Jack  sat  down,  subdued.  Then  the  Bishop  pulled 
out  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  chuckled. 

"  Now,  Jack,  you're  gwinter  have  the  laugh  on  me, 
for  the  old  mood  is  on  me  an'  I'm  yearnin'  to  do  this  jes' 
like  you  yearn  to  hold  up  the  bank  ag'in.  It's  the  old 
instinct  gettin'  to  wurk.  But,  Jack,  you  see  —  this  — 
mine  —  ain't  so  bad.  God  sometimes  provides  in  an  on- 
expected  way." 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  Jack. 

The  old  man  chuckled  again.  Then  Jack  saw  his 
face  turn  red  —  as  if  half  ashamed :  "  Why  should  I 
blame  you,  Jack,  fur  I'm  doin'  the  same  thing  mighty 
nigh  —  I'm  longin'  for  the  flesh  pots  of  Egypt.  As  I 
rode  along  to-day  thinkin' —  thinkin' —  thinkin' —  how 
can  I  save  the  children  an'  Cap'n  Tom,  how  can  I  get  a 
little  money  to  send  Cap'n  Tom  off  to  the  Doctor  —  an' 
also  repeatin'  to  myself  — *  The  Lord  will  provide  — 
He  will  provide  —  '  I  ran  up  to  this,  posted  on  a  tree, 
an'  kinder  starin'  me  an'  darin'  me  in  the  face.'* 

He  laughed  again :  "  Jes'  scolded  you,  Jack,  but 
see  here.  See  how  the  old  feelin'  has  come  over  me  at 
sight  of  this  bragging,  blow-hard  challenge.  It  makes 
my  blood  bile. 

"Race    horse?  —  Why,     Richard     Travis     wouldn't 

23 


354         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

know  a  real  race  horse  if  he  had  one  by  the  tail.  It's 
disgustin' —  these  silk-hat  fellers  gettin'  up  a  three-cor 
nered  race,  an'  then  openin'  it  up  to  the  valley  —  know- 
in'  they've  put  the  entrance  fee  of  fifty  dollars  so  high 
that  no  po'  devil  in  the  County  can  get  in,  even  if  he 
had  a  horse  equal  to  theirs. 

"  Three  thousan'   dollars  !  —  think  of  it !     An'  then 
Richard  Travis  ruhs  it  in.     He's  havin'  fun  over  it  — 
he  always  would  do  that.     Read  the  last  line  ag'in  —  in 
them  big  letters: 

*  Open  to  anything  raised  in  the  Tennessee  Valley  " 

"  Fine  fun  an'  kinder  sarcastic,  but,  Jack,  Ben  But 
ler  cu'd  make  them  blooded  trotters  look  like  steers  led 
to  slaughter." 

Jack  sat  looking  silently  in  the  fire. 

s"  If  I  had  the  entrance  fee  I'd  do  it  once  —  jes'  once 
mo'  befo'  I  die?  Once  mo'  to  feel  the  old  thrill  of  vic 
tory!  An'  for  Cap'n  Tom  an'  Shiloh.  God'll  pro 
vide,  Jack  —  God'll  provide !  " 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


BONAPARTE  lay  on  the  little  front  porch  —  the 
loafing  place  which  opened  into  Billy  Buch's 
bar-room.  Apparently,  he  was  asleep  and  bask 
ing  in  the  warm  Autumn  sunshine.  In  reality  he  was 
doing  his  star  trick  and  one  which  could  have  originated 
only  in  the  brains  of  a  born  genius.  Feigning  sleep,  he 
thus  enticed  within  striking  distance  all  the  timid  coun 
try  dogs  visiting  Cottontown  for  the  first  time,  and 
viewing  its  wonders  with  a  palpitating  heart.  Then, 
like  a  bolt  from  the  sky,  he  would  fall  on  them,  appalled 
and  paralyzed  —  a  demon  with  flashing  teeth  and  ab 
breviated  tail. 

When  finally  released,  with  lacerated  hides  and  wound 
ed  feelings,  they  went  rapidly  homeward,  and  they  told 
it  in  dog  language,  from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  that  Cotton- 
town  was  full  of  the  terrible  and  the  unexpected. 

And  a  great  morning  he  had  had  of  it  —  for  already 
three  humble  and  unsuspecti  ig  curs,  following  three 
humble  and  unsuspecting  countrymen  who  had  walked 
in  to  get  their  morning's  dram,  had  fallen  victims  to  his 
guile. 

Each  successful  raid  of  Bonaparte  brought  forth 
shouts  of  laughter  from  within,  in  which  Billy  Buch, 
the  Dutch  proprietor,  joined.  It  always  ended  in  Bona- 


356         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

parte  being  invited  in  and  treated  to  a  cuspidor  of  beer 
—  the  drinking,  with  the  cuspidor  as  his  drinking  horn, 
being  part  of  his  repertoire.  After  each  one  Billy 
Buch  would  proudly  exclaim: 

"  Mine  Gott,  but  dat  Pony  parte  ees  one  greet  dog!  " 

Then  Bonaparte  would  reel  around  in  a  half  drunken 
swagger  and  go  back  to  watch  for  other  dogs. 

"I  tell  you,  Billy,"  said  Jud  Carpenter  — "  Jes' 
watch  that  dog.  They  ain't  no  dog  on  earth  his  e'kal 
when  it  comes  to  brains.  Them  country  dogs  aflyin'  up 
the  road  reminds  me  of  old  Uncle  Billy  Alexander  who 
paid  for  his  shoes  in  bacon,  and  paid  every  spring  in 
advance  for  the  shoes  he  was  to  get  in  the  fall.  But 
one  fall  when  he  rid  over  after  his  shoes,  the  neigh 
bors  said  the  shoemaker  had  gone  —  gone  for  good  — 
to  Texas'  to  live  —  gone  an'  left  his  creditors  behin'. 
Uncle  Billy  looked  long  an'  earnestly  t' wards  the  set- 
tin'  sun,  raised  his  ban's  to  heaven  an'  said :  "  Good 
bye,  my  bacon ! ' 

Billy  Buch  laughed  loudly. 

"  Dat  ees  goot  —  goot  —  goot-bye,  mine  bac'n !  I 
dus  remember  dat." 

Bonaparte  had  partaken  of  his  fourth  cuspidor  of 
beer  and  was  in  a  delightful  state  of  swagger  and  fight 
when  he  saw  an  unusual  commotion  up  the  street.  What 
was  it,  thought  Bonaparte  —  a  crowd  of  boys  and  men 
surrounding  another  man  with  an  organ  and  leading  a 
little  devil  of  a  hairy  thing,  dressed  up  like  a  man. 

His  hair  bristled  with  indignation.  That  little  thing 
dividing  honors  with  him  in  Cottontown?  It  was  not 
to  be  endured  for  a  moment ! 


BONAPARTE'S  WATERLOO  357 

Bonaparte  stood  gazing  in  indignant  wonder.  He 
slowly  arose  and  shambled  along  half  drunkenly  to  see 
what  it  all  meant.  A  crowd  had  gathered  around  the 
thing  —  the  insignificant  thing  which  was  attracting 
more  attention  in  Cottontown  than  himself,  the  cham 
pion  dog.  Among  them  were  some  school  boys,  and  one 
of  them,  a  red-headed  lad,  was  telling  his  brother  all 
about  it. 

"  Now,  Ozzie  B.,  this  is  a  monkey  —  the  furst  you've 
ever  seed.  He  looks  jes'  like  I  told  you  —  sorter  like 
a  man  an'  sorter  like  a  nigger  an'  sorter  like  a  groun' 
hog." 

"  The  pretties'  thing  I  ever  seed,"  said  Ozzie  B., 
walking  around  and  staring  delightedly. 

The  crowd  grew  larger.  It  was  a  show  Cottontown 
had  never  seen  before. 

Then  two  men  came  out  of  the  bar-room  —  one,  the 
bar-keeper,  fat  and  jolly,  and  the  other  lank  and  with 
malicious  eyes. 

This  gave  Bonaparte  his  cue  and  he  bristled  and 
growled. 

"  Look  out,  mister,"  said  the  tender-hearted  Ozzie  B. 
to  the  Italian,  "  watch  this  here  dog,  Bonaparte ;  he's 
terrible  'bout  fight  in'.  He'll  eat  yo'  monkey  if  he  gets 
a  chance." 

"  Monk  he  noo  'fear'd  ze  dog,"  grinned  the  Italian. 
"  Monk  he  whup  ze  dog." 

"Vot's  dat?"  exclaimed  Billy  Buch  — "  Vot's  dat, 
man,  you  say?  Mine  Gott,  I  bet  ten  to  one  dat  Pony- 
parte  eats  him  oop !  " 

To  prove  it  Bonaparte  ran  at  the  monkey  savagely. 


358         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

But  the  monkey  ran  up  on  the  Italian's  shoulder,  where 
he  grinned  at  the  dog. 

The  Italian  smiled.  Then  he  ran  his  hand  into  a 
dirty  leathern  belt  which  he  carried  around  his  waist  — 
and  slowly  counted  out  some  gold  coins.  With  a  smile 
fresh  as  the  skies  of  Italy,  full  of  all  sweetness,  gentle 
ness  and  suavity : 

"  Cover  zees,  den,  py  Gar !  " 

Billy  gasped  and  grasped  Jud  around  the  neck  where 
he  clung,  with  his  Dutch  smile  frozen  on  his  lips.  Jud, 
with  collapsed  under  jaw,  looked  sheepishly  around. 
Bonaparte  tried  to  stand,  but  he,  too,  sat  down  in  a 
heap. 

The  crowd  cheered  the  Italian. 

"  We  will  do  it,  suh,"  said  Jud,  who  was  the  first  to 
recover,  and  who  knew  he  would  get  his  part  of  it  from 
Billy. 

"  Ve  vill  cover  eet,"  said  Billy,  with  ashen  face. 

"  We  will !  "  barked  Bonaparte,  recovering  his  equi 
librium  and  snarling  at  the  monkey. 

There  was  a  sob  and  a  wail  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
crowd. 

"  Oh,  don't  let  him  kill  the  monkey  —  oh,  don't!" 

It  was  Ozzie  B. 

Archie  B.  ran  hastily  around  to  him,  made  -a  cross 
mark  in  the  road  with  his  toe  and  spat  in  it. 

"  You're  a  fool  as  usual,  Ozzie  B.,"  he  said,  shaking 
his  brother.  "  Can't  you  see  that  Italian  knows  what 
he's  about?  If  he'd  risk  that  twenty,  much  as  he  loves 
money,  he'd  risk  his  soul.  Venture  pee-wee  under  the 
bridge  —  bam  —  bam  —  bam!  " 


BONAPARTE'S  WATERLOO  359 

Ozzie  B.  grew  quieter.  Somehow,  what  Archie  B. 
said  always  made  things  look  differently.  Then  Archie 
B.  came  up  and  whispered  in  his  ear:  "I'm  fur  the 
monkey  —  the  Lord  is  on  his  side." 

Ozzie  B.  thought  this  was  grand. 

Then  Archie  B.  hunted  for  his  Barlow  pocket  knife. 
Around  his  neck,  tied  with  a  string,  was  a  small  greasy, 
dirty  bag,  containing  a  piece  of  gum  asafcetida  and  a 
ten-dollar  gold  piece.  The  asafretida  was  worn  to 
keep  off  contagious  diseases,  and  the  gold  piece,  which 
represented  all  his  earthly  possessions,  had  been  given 
him  by  his  grandmother  the  year  she  died. 

Archie  B.  was  always  ready  to  "  swap  sight  under 
seen."  He  played  marbles  for  keeps,  checkers  for  ap 
ples,  ran  foot-races  for  stakes,  and  even  learned  his 
Sunday  School  lessons  for  prizes. 

The  Italian  still  stood,  smiling,  when  a  small  red 
headed  boy  came  up  and  touched  him  on  the  arm.  He 
put  a  ten-dollar  gold  piece  into  the  Italian's  hand. 

"  Put  this  in  for  me,  mister  —  an'  make  'em  put  up 
a  hundred  mo'.  I  wrant  some  of  that  lucre." 

The  Italian  was  touched.  He  patted  Archie  B.'s 
head : 

"  Breens,"  he  said,  "  breens  uppa  da." 

Again  he  shook  the  gold  in  the  face  of  Jud  and  Bill. 

"  Now  bring  on  ze  ten  to  one,  py  Gar !  " 

The  cheers  of  the  crowd  nettled  Billy  and  Jud. 

"Jes'  wait  till  we  come  back,"  said  Jud.  "'He 
laughs  bes'  who  laughs  las'.  ' 

They  retired  for  consultation. 

Bonaparte  followed. 


360         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Within  the  bar-room  they  wiped  the  cold  perspiration 
from  their  faces  and  looked  speechlessly  into  each  other's 
eyes.  Billy  spoke  first. 

"  Mine  Gott,  but  we  peek  it  oop  in  de  road,  Jud?  " 

"  It  seems  that  way  to  me  —  a  dead  cinch." 

Bonaparte  was  positive  —  only  let  him  get  to  the 
monkey,  he  said  with  his  wicked  eyes. 

Billy  looked  at  Bonaparte,  big,  swarthy,  sinewy  and 
savage.  He  thought  of  the  little  monkey. 

"  Dees  is  greet !  —  dees  is  too  goot !  —  Jud,  we  peek 
it  oop  in  de  road,  heh  ?  " 

"  I'm  kinder  afraid  wre'll  wake  an'  find  it  a  dream, 
Billy  —  hurry  up.  Get  the  cash." 

Billy  was  thoughtful :  "  Tree  hun'd'd  dollars  — 
Jud  —  eef  —  eef  — "  he  shook  his  head. 

"  Now,  Billy,"  said  Jud  patronizingly  — "  that's  non 
sense.  Bonaparte  will  eat  him  alive  in  two  minutes. 
Now,  he  bein'  my  dorg,  jes'  you  put  up  the  coin  an'  let 
me  in  on  the  ground  floor.  I'll  pay  it  back  —  if  we 
lose  — "  he  laughed.  "  Tf  we  lose  —  it's  sorter  like  say- 
in'  if  the  sun  don't  rise." 

"  Dat  ees  so,  «Tud,  we  peek  eet  oop  in  de  road.  But 
eef  we  don't  peek  eet  oop,  Billy  ees  pusted !  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Jud,  "  it's  all  like  takin'  candy  from  your 
own  child." 

The  news  had  spread  and  a  crowd  had  gathered  to 
see  the  champion  dog  of  the  Tennessee  Valley  eat  up  a 
monkey.  All  the  loafers  and  ne'er-do-wells  of  Cotton- 
town  were  there.  The  village  had  known  no  such  ex 
citement  since  the  big  mill  had  been  built. 

They  came  up  and  looked  sorrowfully  at  the  monkey, 


BONAPARTE'S  WATERLOO  361 

as  they  would  look  in  the  face  of  the  dead.  But,  con 
sidering  that  he  had  so  short  a  time  to  live,  he  returned 
the  grin  with  a  reverence  which  was  sacreligious. 

"  So  han'sum  —  so  han'sum,"  said  Uncle  Billy  Cald- 
well,  the  squire.  "  So  bright  an'  han'sum  an'  to  die  so 
young !  " 

"  It's  nothin'  but  murder,"  said  another. 

This  proved  too  much  for  Ozzie  B. — 

"  Don't  —  d-o-n-'t  —  let  him  kill  the  monkey,"  he 
cried. 

There  was  an  electric  flash  of  red  as  Archie  B.  ran 
around  the  tree  and  kicked  the  sobs  back  into  his  brother. 

"  Just  wait,  Ozzie  B.,  you  fool." 

"For  — what?"  sobbed  Ozzie. 

"  For  what  the  monkey  does  to  Bonaparte,"  he  shout 
ed  triumphantly. 

The  crowd  yelled  derisively:  "  What  the  monkey 
does  to  Bonaparte  —  that's  too  good?  " 

"  Bo}^,"  said  Uncle  Billy  kindly  — "  don't  you  know 
it's  ag'in  nachur  —  why,  the  dorg'll  eat  him  up !  " 

"  That's  rot,"  said  Archie  B.  disdainfully.  Then 
hotly :  "  Yes,  it  wus  ag'in  nachur  when  David  killed 
Goliath  —  when  Sampson  slew  the  lion,  and  when  we 
licked  the  British.  Oh,  it  wus  ag'in  nachur  then,  but 
it  looks  mighty  nach'ul  now,  don't  it?  Jes'  you  wait 
an'  see  what  the  monkey  does  to  Bonaparte.  I  tell  you, 
Uncle  Billy,  the  Lord's  on  the  monkey's  side  —  can't 
you  see  it  ?  " 

Uncle  Billy  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  He  was  in 
terrupted  by  low  laughter  and  cheers.  A  villager  had 
drawn  a  crude  picture  on  a  white  paste-board  and  was 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

showing  it  around.  A  huge  dog  was  shaking  a  lifeless 
monkey  and  under  it  was  written : 

"  What  Bonaparte  Done  To  The  Monkey !  " 

Archie  B.  seized  it  and  spat  on  it  derisively:  "  Oh, 
well,  that's  the  way  of  the  worP,"  he  said.  "  God  makes 
one  wise  man  to  see  befo',  an'  a  million  fools  to  see  after 
wards." 

The  depths  of  life's  mysteries  have  never  yet  been 
sounded,  and  one  of  the  wonders  of  it  all  is  that  one 
small  voice  praying  for  flowers  in  a  wilderness  of  thorns 
may  live  to  see  them  blossom  at  his  feet. 

"  I've  seed  stranger  things  than  that,"  remarked  Un 
cle  Billy  thoughtfully.  "  The  boy  mout  be  right." 

And  nowr  Jud  and  Billy  were  seen  coming  out  of  the 
store,  with  their  hands  full  of  gold. 

"Eet's  robbery  —  eet's  stealin'"— winked  Billy  at 
the  crowd  — "  eet's  like  takin'  it  from  a  babe  — 

With  one  accord  the  crowd  surged  toward  the  back 
lot,  where  Bonaparte,  disgusted  with  the  long  delay, 
had  lain  down  on  a  pile  of  newly-blown  leaves  and  slept. 
Around  the  lot  was  a  solid  plank  fence,  with  one  gate 
open,  and  here  in  the  lot,  sound  asleep  in  the  sunshine, 
lay  the  champion. 

The  Italian  brought  along  the  monkey  in  his  arms. 
Archie  B.  calmly  and  confidently  acting  as  his  body 
guard.  Jud  walked  behind  to  see  that  the  monkey  did 
not  get  away,  and  behind  him  came  Ozzie  B.  sobbing  in 
his  hiccoughy  way : 

"  Don't  let  him  kill  the  po'  little  thing !  " 

He  could  go  no  farther  than  the  gate.  There  he 
stood  weeping  and  looking  at  the  merciless  crowd. 


BONAPARTE'S  WATERLOO  363 

Bonaparte  was  still  asleep  on  his  pile  of  leaves.  Jud 
would  have  called  and  wakened  him,  but  Archie  B.  said: 
"  Oh,  the  monkey  will  waken  him  quick  enough  —  let 
him  alone." 

In  the  laugh  which  followed,  Jud  yielded  and  Archie 
B.  won  the  first  blood  in  the  battle  of  brains. 

The  crowd  now  stood  silent  and  breathless  in  one  cor 
ner  of  the  lot.  Only  Ozzie  B.'s  sobs  were  heard.  In  the 
far  corner  lay  Bonaparte. 

The  Italian  stooped,  and  unlinking  the  chain  of  the 
monkey's  collar,  sat  him  on  the  ground  and,  pointing  to 
the  sleeping  dog,  whispered  something  in  Italian  into 
his  pet's  ear. 

The  crowd  scarcely  drew  its  breath  as  it  saw  the  little 
animal  slipping  across  the  yard  to  its  death. 

Within  three  feet  of  the  dog  he  stopped,  then  spring 
ing  quickly  on  Bonaparte,  with  a  screeching,  blood 
curdling  yell,  grabbed  his  stump  of  a  tail  in  both  hands, 
and  as  the  crowd  rushed  up,  they  heard  its  sharp  teeth 
close  on  Bonaparte's  most  sensitive  member  with  the 
deadly  click  of  a  steel  trap. 

The  effect  was  instantaneous.  A  battery  could  not 
have  brought  the  champion  to  his  feet  quicker.  With 
him  came  the  monkey  —  glued  there  —  a  continuation 
of  the  dog's  tail. 

Around  and  around  went  Bonaparte,  snarling  and 
howling  and  making  maddening  efforts  to  reach  the 
monkey.  But  owing  to  the  shortness  of  Bonaparte's 
tail,  the  monkey  kept  just  out  of  reach,  its  hind  legs 
braced  against  the  dog,  its  teeth  and  nails  glued  to  the 
two  inches  of  tail. 


364         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Around  and  around  whirled  Bonaparte,  trying  to 
throw  off  the  things  wThich  had  dropped  on  him,  seeming 
ly,  from  the  skies.  His  growls  of  defiance  turned  to 
barks,  then  to  howls  of  pain  and  finally,  as  he  ran  near 
to  Archie  B.,  he  was  heard  to  break  into  yelps  of  fright 
as  he  broke  away  dashing  around  the  lot  in  a  whirlwind 
of  leaves  and  dust. 

The  champion  dog  was  running! 

"  Sick  him,  Bonaparte,  grab  him  —  turn  round  an' 
grab  him !  "  shouted  Jud  pale  to  his  eyes,  and  shaking 
with  shame. 

"  Seek  heem,  Ponyparte  —  O  mine  Gott,  seek  him," 
shouted  Billy. 

Ju4  rushed  and  tried  to  head  the  dog,  but  the  cham 
pion  seemed  to  have  only  one  idea  in  his  head  —  to  get 
awTay  from  the  misery  which  brought  up  his  rear. 

Around  he  went  once  more,  then  seeing  the  gate  open, 
he  rushed  out,  knocking  Ozzie  B.  over  into  the  dust,  and 
when  the  crowd  rushed  out,  nothing  could  be  seen  except 
a  cloud  of  dust  going  down  the  village  street,  in  the  hind 
most  cloud  of  it  a  pair  of  little  red  coat  tails  flapping 
in  the  breeze. 

Then  the  little  red  coat  tails  suddenly  dropped  out  of 
the  cloud  of  dust  and  came  running  back  up  the  road  to 
meet  its  master. 

Jud  watched  the  vanishing  cloud  of  dust  going  toward 
the  distant  mountains. 

"  My  God  —  not  Bonaparte  —  not  the  champion," 
he  said. 

Billy  stood  also  looking  with  big  Dutch  tears  in  his 


BONAPARTE'S  WATERLOO  365 

eyes.  He  watched  the  cloud  of  dust  go  over  the  dis 
tant  hills.  Then  he  waved  his  hand  sadly  — 

"  Goot-pye,  mine  bac'n  !  " 

The  monkey  came  up  grinning  triumphantly. 

Thinking  he  had  done  something  worthy  of  a  penny, 
he  added  to  Billy  Buch's  woe  by  taking  off  his  comical 
cap  and  passing  it  around  for  a  collection. 

He  was  honest  in  it,  but  the  crowd  took  it  as  irony, 
and  amid  their  laughter  Jud  and  Billy  slipped  away. 

Uncle  Billy,  the  stake-holder,  in  handing  the  money 
over  to  the  Italian,  remarked: 

"  Wai,  it  don't  look  so  much  ag'in  nachur  now,  after 
all." 

"  Breens  uppa  dar  " — smiled  the  Italian  as  he  put 
ten  eagles  into  Archie  B.'s  hand.  All  of  which  made 
Archie  B.  vain,  for  the  crowd  now  cheered  him  as  they 
had  jeered  before. 

"  Come,  let's  go,  Ozzie  B.,"  he  said.  "  They  ain't 
no  man  livin'  can  stand  too  much  heroism."  • 


CHAPTER  XXV 

A  BORN  NATURALIST 

ARCHIE  B.  trotted   off,  striking  a  path  leading 
through  the  wood.      It  was  a  near  cut  to  the 
log  school   house   which  stood   in   an   old  field, 
partly  grown  up  in  scrub-oaks  and  bushes. 

Down  in  the  wood,  on  a  clean  bar  where  a  mountain 
stream  had  made  a  bed  of  white  sand,  he  stopped,  pulled 
off  his  coat,  counted  his  gold  again  with  eyes  which 
scarcely  believed  it  yet,  and  then  turned  handsprings 
over  and  over  in  the  white  sand. 

This  relieved  him  of  much  of  the  suppressed  steam 
which  had  been  under  pressure  for  two  hours.  Then 
he  sat  down  on  a  log  and  counted  once  more  his  gold. 

Ozzie  B.,  pious,  and  now  doubly  so  at  sight  of  his 
brother's  wealth,  stood  looking  over  his  shoulder: 

"  It  was  the  good  Lord  done  it,"  he  whispered  rever 
ently,  as  he  stood  and  looked  longingly  at  the  gold. 

"  Of  course,  but  I  helped  at  the  right  time,  that's  the 
way  the  Lord  does  everything  here." 

Then  Archie  B.  went  down  into  his  coat  pocket  and 
brought  out  a  hollow  rubber  ball,  with  a  small  hole  in 
one  end.  Ozzie  B.  recognized  his  brother's  battery  of 
Gypsy  Juice.  , 

"  How  —  when,  oh,  Archie  B. !  " 

"  -S-h-h  —  Ozzie  B.     It  don't  pay  to  show  yo'  hand 

366 


A  BORN  NATURALIST  367 

even  after  you've  won  —  the  other  feller  might  remem 
ber  it  nex'  time.  'Taint  good  business  sense.  But  I 
pumped  it  into  Bonaparte  at  the  right  time  when  he 
was  goin'  round  an'  round  an'  undecided  whether  he'd 
take  holt  or  git.  This  settled  him  —  he  got.  The 
Lord  was  on  the  monkey's  side,  of  course,  but  He  needed 
Gypsy  Juice  at  the  right  time." 

Then  he  showed  Ozzie  B.  how  it  was  done.  "  So,  with 
yo'  hand  in  yo'  pocket  —  so !  Then  here  comes  Bona 
parte  round  an'  round  an'  skeered  mighty  nigh  to  the 
runnin'  point.  So  —  then  sczit !  It  wus  enough." 

Ozzie  B.  shuddered :  "  You  run  a  terrible  risk  doin' 
that.  They'd  have  killed  you  if  they'd  seen  it,  Jud  an' 
Billy.  An'  all  yo'  money  up  too." 

"  Of  course,"  said  his  brother,  "  but  Ozzie  B.,  when 
you  bluff,  bluff  bold;  when  you  bet,  bet  big;  when  you 
steal,  steal  straight." 

Ozzie  B.  shook  his  head.  Then  he  looked  up  at  the 
sun  high  above  the  trees. 

He  sprang  up  from  the  log,  pale  and  scared. 

"Archie  B. —  Archie  B.,  jes'  look  at  the  sun!  It 
must  be  'leven  o'clock  an  —  an  think  what  we'll  ketch 
for  bein'  late  at  school.  Oh,  but  I  clean  forgot  — 
oh  —  " 

He  started  off  trembling. 

"  Hold  on,  hold  on !  "  said  his  brother  running  and 
catching  Ozzie  B.  in  the  coat  collar.  "  Now  you  sho'ly 
ain't  goin'  to  be  sech  a  fool  as  that?  It's  too  late  to  go 
now ;  we'll  only  ketch  a  whuppin'.  We  are  goin'  to 
play  hookey  to-day." 

But  Ozzie  B.  only  shook  his  head.     "  That's  wrong 


368         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

—  so  wrong.  The  Lord  —  He  will  not  bless  us  —  maw 
says  so.  Oh,  I  can't,  Archie  B." 

"  Now  look  here,  Ozzie  B.  The  Lord  don't  expec' 
nobody  but  a  fool  to  walk  into  a  tan-hidin'.  If  you  go 
to  school  now,  old  Triggers  will  tan  yo'  hide,  see? 
Then  he'll  send  word  to  paw  an'  when  you  get  home  to 
night  you'll  git  another  one." 

"  Maw  said  I  was  to  allers  do  my  duty.  Oh,  I  can't 
tell  him  a  lie !  " 

"  You've  got  to  lie,  Ozzie  B.  They's  times  when 
everybody  has  got  to  lie.  Afterwards  when  it's  all  over 
an'  understood  they  can  square  it  up  in  other  ways. 
When  a  man  or  'pman  is  caught  and  downed  it's  all 
over  —  they  can't  tell  the  truth  then  an'  get  straight  — 
an'  there's  no  come  ag'in !  But  if  they  lie  an'  brazen  it 
out  they'll  have  another  chance  yet.  Then's  the  time 
to  stop  lyin' —  after  yo'  ain't  caught." 

"  Oh,  I  can't,"  said  Ozzie  B.,  trying  to  pull  away. 
"  I  must  —  must  go  to  school." 

"  Rats  "  —  shouted  Archie  B.,  seizing  him  with  both 
hands  and  shaking  him  savagely  — "  here  I  am  argu'in' 
with  you  about  a  thing  that  any  fool  orter  see  when  I 
cu'd  a  bin  yonder  a  huntin'  for  that  squirrel  nest  I  wus 
tellin'  you  about.  Now  what'll  happen  if  you  go  to 
school?  Ole  Triggers  '11  find  out  where  you've  been 
an'  what  adoin' — he'll  lick  you.  Paw  '11  know  all 
about  it  when  you  git  home  —  he'll  lick  you." 

Ozzie  B.  only  shook  his  head :  "  It's  my  duty  — 
hate  to  do  it,  Archie  B. —  but  it's  my  duty.  If  the 
Lord  wills  me  a  lickin'  for  tellin'  the  truth,  I'll,  I'll 
haf ter  take  it  — "  and  he  looked  very  resigned. 


A  BORN  NATURALIST  369 

"  Oh,  you're  playin'  for  martyrdom  again !  " 

"  There  was  Casabianca,  Archie  B. —  him  that  stood 
on  the  burnin'  deck  " —  he  ventured  timidly. 

"  Tarnashun  !  "  shouted  his  brother  — "  an'  I  hope  he 
is  still  standin'  on  a  burnin'  deck  in  the  other  worl' — 
don't  mention  that  fool  to  me !  —  to  stay  there  an'  git 
blowed  up  after  the  ship  was  afire  an'  his  dad  didn't  sho' 
up."  He  spat  on  a  mark:  "  Venture  pee-wee  under 
the  bridge  —  bam  —  bam  —  bam." 

"  There  was  William  Tell's  son,"  ventured  his  brother 
again. 

"  Another  gol-darn  id' jut,  Ozzie  B.,  like  his  dad  that 
put  him  up  to  it.  Why,  if  the  ole  man  had  missed,  the 
two  would'er  gone  down  in  history  as  the  champion  ass 
an'  his  colt.  The  risk  was  too  big  for  the  odds.  Why, 
he  didn't  have  one  chance  in  a  hundred.  Besides,  them 
fellers  actin'  the  fool  don't  hurt  nobody  but  theyselves. 
Now  you  — ' 

"  How's  that,  Archie  B.?  " 

Archie  B.  lowered  his  voice  to  a  gentle  persuasive 
whisper :  "  Don't  do  it,  ole  man  —  come  now  —  be 
reasonable.  If  we  stay  here  in  the  woods,  Triggers  '11 
think  we're  at  home.  Dad  will  think  we're  in  school. 
They'll  never  know  no  better.  It's  wrong,  but  we'll 
have  plenty  o'  time  to  make  it  right  —  we've  got  six 
months  mo'  of  school  this  year.  Now,  if  you  do  go  — 
you'll  be  licked  twice  an'  —  an',  Ozzie  B.,  I'll  git  licked 
when  paw  hears  of  it  to-night." 

"  Oh,"  said  Ozzie  B.,  "  that's  it,  is  it?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  if  a  man  don't  look  out  for  his  own 


24 


370        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

hide,  whose   goin'   to   do  it   for   him?     Come  now,  ole 
man." 

Ozzie  B.  was  silent.  His  brother  saw  the  narrow 
forehead  wrinkling  in  indecision.  He  knew  the  differ 
ent  habits  —  not  principles  —  of  his  nature  were  at 
work  for  master}^.  Finally  the  hypocrite  habit  pre 
vailed,  when  he  said  piously :  "  We  have  sowed  the 
wind,  Archie  B. —  we'll  hafter  reap  the  whirlwind,  like 
paw  says." 

"  Go!  "  shouted  his  brother.  "  Go!  "  and  he  helped 
him  along  with  a  kick  — "  Go,  since  I  can't  save  you. 
You'll  reap  the  whirlwind,  but  I  won't  if  my  brains  can 
save  me." 

He  sat  down  on  a  log  and  watched  his  brother  go 
down  the  path,  sobbing  as  usual,  when  he  felt  that  he 
was  a  martyr.  He  sat  long  and  thought. 

"  It's  bad,"  he  sighed  — "  a  man  cu'd  do  so  much  mo' 
in  life  if  he  didn't  hafter  waste  so  much  time  arguin' 
with  fools.  Well,  I'm  here  fur  the  day  an'  I'll  learn 
somethin'.  Now,  I  wanter  know  if  one  squirrel  er  two 
squirrels  stays  in  the  same  hole  in  winter.  Then  there's 
the  wild-duck.  I  wanter  kno'  when  the  mallards  go 
south." 

In  a  few  minutes  he  had  hid  himself  behind  a  tree  in 
a  clump  of  brush.  He  was  silent  for  ten  minutes,  so 
silent  that  only  the  falling  leaves  could  be  heard.  Then 
very  cautiously  he  imitated  the  call  of  the  gray  squirrel 
—  once,  twice,  and  still  again.  He  had  not  long  to 
wait.  In  a  hole  high  up  in  a  hickory  a  little  gray  head 
popped  out  —  then  a  squirrel  came  out  cautiously  — 
first  its  head,  then  half  of  its  body,  and  each  time  it 


A  BORN  NATURALIST  371 

moved  looking  and  listening;,  with  its  cunning,  bright 
eyes,  taking  in  everything.  Then  it  frisked  out  with 
a  flirt  of  its  tail,  and  sat  on  a  limb  nearby.  It  was  fol 
lowed  by  another  and  another.  Archie  B.  watched  them 
for  a  half  hour,  a  satisfied  smile  playing  around  his  lips. 
He  was  studying  squirrel.  He  saw  them  run  into  the 
hole  again  and  bring  out.  each  a  nut  and  sit  on  a  nearby 
limb  and  eat  it. 

"  That  settles  that,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  thought 
they  kept  their  nuts  in  the  same  hole." 

There  was  the  sound  of  voices  behind  him  and  the 
squirrels  vanished.  Archie  B.  stood  up  and  saw  an  old 
man  and  some  children  gathering  nuts. 

"  It's  the  Bishop  an'  the  little  mill-mites.  I'll  bet 
they've  brought  their  dinner." 

This  was  the  one  thing  Archie  B.  needed  to  make  his 
day  in  the  woods  complete. 

"  Hello,"  he  shouted,  coming  up  to  them. 

"  Why,  it's  Archie  B.,"  said  Shiloh,  delighted. 

"Why,  it  is,"  said  her  grandfather.  "What  you 
doin',  Archie  B.?" 

u  Studyin'  squirrels  right  now.  What  you  all  do- 
in'?" 

"  I've  tuck  the  kids  out  of  the  mill  an'  I'm  givin'  'em 
their  fus'  day  in  the  woods.  Shiloh,  there,  has  been 
mighty  sick  and  is  weak  yet,  so  we're  goin'  slow.  Mighty 
glad  to  run  upon  you,  Archie  B.  Can't  you  sho'  Shi 
loh  the  squirrels?  She's  never  seed  one  yet,  have  you, 
pet?" 

"  No,"  said  Shiloh  thoughtfully.  "  Is  they  like  them 
little  jorees  that  say  Wake-up,  pet!  Wake-up,  pet? 


372         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Oh,  do  sho'  me  the  squirrel!  'Mattox,  ain't  this  jes' 
fine,  bein'  out  of  the  mill?  " 

Archie  B.'s  keen  glance  took  in  the  well-filled  lunch 
basket.  At  once  he  became  brilliantly  entertaining. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  had  Shiloh  enraptured  at  the  wood- 
lore  he  told  her, —  even  Bull  Run  and  Seven  Days,  At 
lanta  and  Appomattox  were  listening  in  amazement,  so 
interesting  becomes  nature's  story  when  it  finds  a  reader. 

And  so  all  the  morning  Archie  B.  went  with  them, 
and  never  had  they  seen  so  much  and  enjoyed  a  day  as 
they  had  this  one. 

And  the  lunch  —  how  good  it  tasted !  It  was  a  new 
life  to  them.  Shiloh's  color  came  in  the  healthful  ex 
ercise,  and  even  Bull  Run  began  to  look  out  keenly  from 
his  dull  eyes. 

After  lunch  Shiloh  went  to  sleep  on  a  soft  carpet  of 
Bermuda  grass  with  the  old  man's  coat  for  a  blanket, 
while  the  other  children  waded  in  the  branch,  and  gath 
ered  nuts  till  time  to  go  back  home. 

It  was  nearly  sun-down  when  they  reached  the  gate 
of  the  little  hut  on  the  mountain. 

"  We  must  do  this  often,  Archie  B,"  said  the  Bishop, 
as  the  children  went  in,  tired  and  hungry,  leaving  him 
and  Archie  B.  at  the  gate.  "  I've  never  seed  the  little 
'uns  have  sech  a  time,  an'  it  mighty  nigh  made  me 
young  ag'in." 

All  afternoon  Archie  B.  had  been  thinking.  All  day 
he  had  felt  the  lumpy,  solid  thing  in  the  innermost 
depths  of  his  jeans  pocket,  which  told  him  one  hundred 
dollars  in  gold  lay  there,  and  that  it  would  need  an  ex 
planation  when  he  reached  home  or  he  was  in  for  the 


A  BORN  NATURALIST  373 

worst  whipping  he  ever  had.  Knowing  this,  he  had  not 
been  thinking  all  the  afternoon  for  nothing.  The  old 
man  bade  him  good-night,  but  still  Archie  B.  lingered, 
hesitated,  hung  around  the  gate. 

"  Won't  you  come  in,  Archie  B.?  " 

"  No-o  —  thank  you,  Bishop,  but  I'd  —  I'd  like  to, 
really  tho',  jes'  to  git  a  little  spirt'ul  g'idance  " — a 
phrase  he  had  heard  his  father  use  so  often. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Archie  B.?" 

Archie  B.  rubbed  his  chin  thoughtfully.  "  I'm  —  I'm 
—  thinkin'  of  j'inin'  the  church,  Bishop." 

"Bless  yo'  h'art  —  that's  right.  I  know'd  you'd 
quit  yo'  mischeev'us  ways  an'  come  in  —  an'  I  honor  you 
fur  it,  Archie  B. —  praise  the  Lord!" 

Archie  B.  still  stood  pensive  and  sobered: 

"  But  a  thing  happened  to-day,  Bishop,  an'  it's  wor- 
ryin'  me  very  much.  It  makes  me  think,  perhaps  — 
I  —  ain't  —  ain't  worthy  of  —  the  bestowal  of  —  the 
grace  —  you  know,  the  kind  I  heard  you  speak  of?  " 

"  Tell  me,  Archie  B.,  lad  —  an'  I'll  try  to  enlighten 
you  in  my  po'  way." 

"Well,  now;  it's  this  —  jes'  suppose  you  wus  goin' 
along  now  —  say  to  school,  an'  seed  a  dorg,  say  his 
name  was  Bonaparte,  wan  tin'  to  eat  up  a  little  mon 
key;  an'  a  lot  of  fellers,  say  like  Jud  Carpenter  an* 
Billy  Buch,  a-bettin'  he  cu'd  do  it  in  ten  minutes  an* 
a-sickin'  him  on  the  po'  little  monkey  —  this  big  savage 
dorg.  An'  suppose  now  you  feel  sorry  for  the  monkey 
an'  somethin' — you  can't  tell  what  —  but  somethin' 
mighty  plain  tells  you  the  Lord  wus  on  the  monkey's 
side  —  so  plain  you  cu'd  read  it  —  like  it  told  David  — 


374         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

an'  the  dorg  wus  as  mean  an'  bostful  as  Goliah  wus  — " 

"  Archie  B.,  my  son,  I'd  a  been  fur  the  monke}r,  I  sho' 
would,"  said  the  Bishop  impressively. 

Archie  B.  smiled :  "  Bishop,  you've  called  my  hand 
—  I  wus  for  that  monkey." 

The   old   man   smiled   approvingly :     "  Good  —  good 
-  Archie  B." 

"  Now,    what    happened  ?     I'm    mighty    inter' sted  - 
oh,  that  is  good.     I'm  bettin'  the  monkey  downed  him, 
the  Lord  bein'  on  his  side." 

.  "  But,  s'pose  furst,"  went  on  Archie  B.  argumenta- 
tively,  "  that  you  wanted  to  give  some  money  fur  a 
little  church  that  you  wanted  to  j'ine  —  up  on  the  moun 
tain  side,  a  little  po'-fo'k  church,  that  depended  on 
charity  — 

"  I  understand,  I  understand,  Archie  B.,  that  wus 
the  Lord's  doin's, —  ten  to  one  on  the  monkey,  Archie  — 
ten  to  one !  " 

"  An'  that  you  had  ten  dollars  in  gold  around  yo' 
neck  in  a  little  bag,  given  you  by  your  ole  Granny  when 
she  died  —  an'  knowin'  howr  the  Lord  wus  for  the  mon 
key,  an'  it  bein'  a  dead  cinch,  an'  all  that  —  an'  these 
fellers  blowin'  an'  offerin'  to  bet  ten  to  one  —  an'  seein' 
you  c'ud  pick  it  up  in  the  road  —  all  for  the  little 
church,  mind  you,  Bishop  — 

"  Archie  B.,"  exclaimed  the  old  man  excitedly, 
"  them  bein'  the  facts  an'  the  thing  at  stake,  with  that 
ole  dorg  an'  Jud  Carpenter  at  the  bottom  of  it,  I'd  a 
put  it  up  on  the  monkey,  son  —  fur  charity,  you  know, 
an'  fur  the  principle  of  it, —  I'd  a  put  it  up,  Archie  B., 
if  I'd  lost  ever'  cent !  " 


A  BORN  NATURALIST  375 

"  Exactly,  Bishop,  an'  I  did  —  at  ten  to  one  —  think 
of  the  odds !  Ten  to  one,  mighty  nigh  as  great  as  wus 
ag'in  David." 

"  An'  you  won,  of  course,  Archie  B.,  you  won  in  a 
walk?  "  said  the  old  man  breathlessly.  "  God  was  fur 
you  an'  the  monkey." 

Archie  B.  smiled  triumphantly  and  pulled  out  his 
handful  of  gold.  The  old  man  sat  down  on  a  log, 
dazed. 

"Archie  B.,  sho'ly,  sho'ly,  not  all  that?  An'  licked 
the  dorg,  an'  that  gang,  an'  cleaned  'em  up  ?  " 

Archie  B.  told  him  the  story  with  all  the  quaint  his 
trionic  talent  of  his  exuberant  nature. 

The  Bishop  sat  and  laughed  till  the  tears  came. 

"  An'  Bonaparte  went  down  the  road  with  the  mon 
key  holt  his  tail  —  the  champion  dorg  —  an'  you  won 
all  that?" 

"  All  fur  charity,  Bishop,  except,  you  know,  part  fur 
keeps  as  a  kinder  nes'  egg." 

"  Of  co-u-r-se  —  Archie  B.,  of  —  course,  no  harm  in 
the  worl'  —  if  —  if  —  my  son  —  if  you  carry  out  your 
original  ideas,  or  promise,  ruther ;  it  won't  work  if  you 
go  back  on  yo'  promise  to  God.  '  God  moves  in  a  mys 
terious  way  his  wonders  to  perform/  "  added  the  Bishop 
solemnly. 

Archie  B.  slipped  fifty  of  his  dollars  into  the  old 
man's  hands. 

"  Do  you  know,  Archie  B.,  I  prayed  for  this  las' 
night?  Now  you  tell  me  God  don't  answer  prayers?  " 

He  was  silent,  touched.  Seldom  before  had  a  prayer 
of  his  been  answered  so  directly. 


376        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  Fur  charity,  Archie  B.,  fur  charity.  I'll  take  it, 
an'  little  you  know  what  this  may  mean." 

Archie  B.  was  silent.  So  far  so  good,  but  it  was 
plain  from  his  still  thoughtful  looks  that  he  had  only 
half  won  out  yet.  He  had  heard  the  old  man  speak, 
and  there  had  been  a  huskiness  about  his  voice. 

"  Now  there  is  paw,  Bishop  —  you  know  he  ain't  jes 
like  you  —  he  don't  see  so  far.  He  might  not  under- 
stan'  it.  Would  you  mind  jes'  droppin'  him  a  line,  you 
know  ?  I'll  take  it  to  him  —  in  case  he  looks  at  the 
thing  differently,  you  know,  fur  whut  you  write  will  go 
a  long  way  with  him." 

The  old  man  smiled:  "Of  course,  Archie  B. —  he 
must  understan'  it.  Of  course,  it  'ud  never  do  to  have 
him  spile  as  good  a  thing  as  that  —  an'  fur  charity,  all 
fur  the  Lord  — " 

"  An'  why  I  didn't  go  to  school,  helpin'  you  all  in 
the  woods,"  put  in  Archie  B. 

"  Of  course,  Archie  B.,  why  of  course,  my  son;  I'll 
fix  it  right." 

And  he  scribbled  a  few  lines  on  the  fly  leaf  of  his 
note  book  for  Archie  B.  to  take  home : 

"  God  bless  you,  my  son,  good-night." 

Archie  B.  struck  out  across  the  fields  jingling  his 
remaining  gold  and  whistling.  At  home  it  was  as  he 
expected.  Patsy  met  him  at  the  gate.  One  look  into 
her  expectant  face  showed  him  that  she  was  delighted  at 
the  prospect  of  his  punishment.  It  was  her  hope  de 
ferred,  now  long  unfulfilled.  He  had  always  gotten 
out  before,  but  now  — 


A  BORN  NATURALIST  377 

"  Walk  in,  Mister  Gambler,  Mr.  Hookey  —  walk  in 
—  paw  is  waitin'  fur  you,"  she  said,  smirking. 

The  Deacon  stood  in  the  door,  silent,  grim,  deter 
mined.  In  his  hand  were  well-seasoned  hickories.  By 
him  stood  his  wife  more  silent,  more  grim,  more  deter 
mined. 

"  Pull  off  yo'  coat,  Archie  B.,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  I'm 
gwinter  lick  you  fur  gamblin'." 

"  Pull  off  yo'  coat,  Archie  B.,"  said  his  mother,  "  I'm 
goin'  to  lick  you  fur  playin'  hooke}^." 

"  Pull  it  off,  Archie  B.,"  said  his  sister  bossily,  "  I'm 
goin'  to  stan'  by  an'  see." 

Archie  B.  pulled  off  his  coat  deliberately. 

"  That's  all  right,"  he  said,  "  Many  a  man  has  been 
licked  befo'  fur  bein'  on  the  Lord's  side." 

"  You  mean  to  tell  me,  Archie  B.  Butts,  you  bet  on 
a  dorg  fight  sho'  nuff,"  said  his  father,  nervously  hand 
ling  his  hickories. 

"  An'  played  hookey?  "  chimed  in  his  mother. 

"Tell  it,  Archie  B.,  tell  the  truth  an'  shame  the 
devil,"  mocked  Patsy. 

"  Yes,  I  done  all  that  —  fur  charity,"  he  said  boldly, 
and  with  a  victorious  ring  in  his  voice. 

"  Did  you  put  up  that  ten  dollars  yo'  Granny  lef 
you  ?  "  screamed  his  mother. 

"  Did  you  dare,  Archie  B.,"  said  Patsy. 

His  father  paled  at  the  thought  of  it :  "  An'  lost  it, 
Archie  B.,  lost  it,  my  son.  Oh,  I  mus'  teach  you  how 
sinful  it  is  to  gamble." 

Archie  B.   replied   by   Cunning  his   hand   deep   down 


378        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

into  his  pocket  and  bringing  up  a  handful  of  gold  — 
five  eagles ! 

His  father  dropped  the  switches  and  stared.  His 
mother  sat  down  suddenly  in  a  chair  and  Patsy  reached 
out,  took  it  and  counted  it  deliberately: — 

"  One  —  two  —  three  —  f o' —  five  —  an'  all  gold  — 
my  gracious,  Maw !  " 

"  That's  jes'  ha'f  of  it,"  said  Archie  B.  indifferently. 
"  I  gave  the  old  Bishop  five  of  'em  —  fur  —  charity. 
Here's  his  note." 

The  Deacon  read  it  and  rubbed  his  chin  thought 
fully:  "That's  a  different  thing,"  he  said  after  a 
while.  "  Entirely  different  proposition,  my  son." 

'*  Yes,  it  'pears  to  be,"  said  his  mother  counting  the 
gold  again.  "We'll  jes'  keep  three  of  'em,  Archie  B. 
They'll  come  in  handy  this  winter." 

"  Put  on  yo'  coat,  my  son,"  said  the  Deacon  gently. 
"  Patsy,  fetch  him  in  the  hot  waffles  an'  syrup  —  the 
lad  'pears  to  be  a  leetle  tired,"  said  his  mother. 

"How  many  whippings  did  you  git,  Archie  B.?" 
whispered  his  brother  as  Archie  B.,  after  entertaining 
the  family  for  an  hour,  all  about  the  great  fight,  crawled 
into  bed :  "  I  got  three,"  went  on  Ozzie  B.  "  Triggers 
fust,  then  paw,  then  maw." 

"  None,"  said  Archie  B.,  as  he  put  his  two  pieces  of 
gold  under  his  pillow. 

"  I  can't  see  why  that  was,"  wailed  Ozzie  B.  "I 
done  nothin'  an' —  an' —  got  all  —  all  —  the  —  lick- 
in'  !  " 

"  You  jes'  reaped  my  whirlwind,"  sneered  his  brother 
— "  All  fools  do !  " 


A  BORN  NATURALIST  379 

But  later  he  felt  so  sorry  for  poor  Ozzie  B.  because 
he  could  not  lie  on  his  back  at  all,  that  he  gave  him  one 
of  his  beautiful  coins  to  go  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


IT  was  the  last  afternoon  of  the  fair,  and  the  great 
race  was  to  come  off  at  three  o'clock. 

There  is  nothing  so  typical  as  a  fair  in  the  Ten 
nessee  Valley.  It  is  the  one  time  in  the  year  when  every 
body  meets  everybody  else.  Besides  being  the  harvest 
time  of  crops,  of  friendships,  of  happy  interchange  of 
thought  and  feeling,  it  is  also  the  harvest  time  of  per 
fected  horseflesh. 

The  forenoon  had  been  given  to  social  intercourse, 
the  display  of  livestock,  the  exhibits  of  deft  women 
fingers,  of  housewife  skill,  of  the  tradesman,  of  the 
merchant,  of  cotton  —  cotton,  in  every  form  and  shape. 

At  noon,  under  the  trees,  lunch  had  been  spread  —  a 
bountiful  lunch,  spreading  as  it  did  from  the  soft  grass 
of  one  tree  to  that  of  another  —  as  family  after  family 
spread  their  linen  —  an  almost  unbroken  line  of  fried 
chicken,  flanked  with  pickles  and  salad,  and  all  the  rich 
profusion  of  the  country  wife's  pantry. 

And  now,  after  lunch,  the  grand  stand  had  been 
quickly  filled,  for  the  fame  of  the  great  race  had  spread 
up  and  down  the  valley,  and  the  valley  dearly  loved  a 
horse-race. 

Five  hundred  dollars  was  considered  a  large  purse, 
but  this  race  was  three  thousand ! 

380 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE 

Three  thousand !  It  would  buy  a  farm.  It  would 
buy  thirty  mules,  and  twice  that  many  steers.  It  would 
make  a  family  independent  for  life. 

And  to-day  it  was  given  to  see  which  one,  of  three 
rich  men,  owned  the  best  horse. 

No  wonder  that  everybody  for  miles  around  was 
there. 

Sturdy  farmers  with  fat  daughters,  jaded  wives,  and 
lusty  sons  who  stepped  awkwardly  on  everything  on 
the  promenade,  and  in  trying  to  get  off  stepped  on 
themselves.  They  went  about,  with  broad,  strong, 
stooping  shoulders,  and  short  coats  that  sagged  in  the 
middle,  dropping  under- jaws,  and  eyes  that  were  kindly 
and  shrewd. 

The  town  people  were  better  dressed  and  fed  than  the 
country  people,  and  but  only  half  way  in  fashion  be 
tween  the  city  and  country,  yet  knowing  it  not. 

The  infield  around  the  judges'  stand,  and  in  front  of 
the  grand-stand,  was  thronged  with  surreys  and  buggies, 
and  filled  with  ladies  and  their  beaux.  A  ripple  of  ex 
citement  had  gone  up  when  Richard  Travis  drove  up 
in  a  tally-ho.  It  was  filled  with  gay  gowns  and  alive 
with  merriment  and  laughter,  and  though  Alice  West- 
more  was  supposed  to  be  on  the  driver's  box  with  the 
owner,  she  was  not  there. 

Tennesseans  were  there  in  force  to  back  Flecker's  geld 
ing  —  Trumps,  and  they  played  freely  and  made  much 
noise.  Col.  Troup's  mare  —  Trombine  —  had  her  par 
tisans  who  were  also  vociferous.  But  Travis's  entry, 
Lizzette,  was  a  favorite,  and,  when  he  appeared  on  the 
track  to  warm  up,  the  valley  shouted  itself  hoarse. 


382        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Then  Flecker  shot  out  of  the  draw-gate  and  spun 
merrily  around  the  track,  and  Col.  Troup  joined  him 
with  Trombine,  and  the  audience  watched  the  three  trot 
ters  warm  up  and  shouted  or  applauded  each  as  it  spun 
past  the  grand-stand. 

Then  the  starting- judge  held  up  a  silk  bag  in  the 
center  of  the  wire.  It  held  three  thousand  dollars  in 
gold,  and  it  swung  around  and  then  settled,  to  a  shining, 
shimmering  silken  sack,  swaying  the  wire  as  it  flashed 
in  the  sun. 

The  starting- judge  clanged  his  bell,  but  the  drivers, 
being  gentlemen,  were  heedless  of  rules  and  drove  on 
around  still  warming  up. 

The  starting- judge  was  about  to  clang  again  —  this 
time  more  positively  —  when  there  appeared  at  the 
draw-gate  a  new  comer,  the  sight  of  whose  horse  and 
appointments  set  the  grand-stand  into  a  wild  roar  of 
mingled  laughter  and  applause. 

As  he  drove  demurely  on  the  track,  he  lifted  quaintly 
and  stiffly  his  old  hat  and  smiled. 

He  was  followed  by  the  village  blacksmith,  whose  very 
looks  told  that  they  meant  business  and  were  out  for 
blood.  The  audience  did  not  like  the  looks  of  this  black 
smith  —  he  was  too  stern  for  the  fun  they  were  having. 
But  they  recognized  the  shambling  creature  who  fol 
lowed  him  as  Bud  Billings,  and  they  shouted  with  laugh 
ter  when  they  saw  he  had  a  sponge  and  bucket ! 

"  Bud  Billings  a  swipe !  " 

Cottontown  wanted  to  laugh,  but  it  was  too  tired.  It 
merely  grinned  and  nudged  one  another.  For  Travis 
had  given  a  half  holiday  and  all  Cottontown  was  there. 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  383 

The  old  man's  outfit  brought  out  the  greatest 
laughter.  The  cart  was  a  big  cheap  thing,  new  and 
brightly  repainted,  and  it  rattled  frightfully.  The  har 
ness  was  a  combination  —  the  saddle  was  made  of  soft 
sheep  skin,  the  wool  next  to  the  horse,  as  were  also  the 
head-stall  of  the  bridle,  the  breast-strap  and  the  breech 
ing.  The  rest  of  it  was  undressed  leather,  and  the  old 
man  had  evidently  made  it  himself. 

But  Ben  Butler  —  never  had  he  looked  so  fine.  Blind, 
cat-hammed  and  pacing  along, —  but  his  sides  were  slick 
and  hard,  his  quarters  rubber. 

The  old  man  had  not  been  training  him  on  the  sandy 
stretches  of  Sand  Mountain  for  nothing. 

A  man  with  half  an  eye  could  have  seen  it,  but  the 
funny  people  in  the  grand-stand  saw  only  the  harness, 
and  the  blind  sunken  eyes  of  the  old  horse.  So  they 
shouted  and  cat-called  and  jeered.  The  outfit  ambled 
up  to  the  starting  judge,  and  the  old  driver  handed  him 
fifty  dollars. 

The  starter  laughed  as  he  recovered  himself,  and  wink 
ing  at  the  others,  asked: 

"  What's  this  for,  old  man?  " 

"  Oh,  jes'  thought  I'd  j'ine  in—"  smiling. 

"  Why,  you  can't  do  it.     What's  your  authority?  " 

The  Bishop  ran  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  while  Bud 
held  Ben  Butler's  head  and  kept  saying  with  comical 
seriousness :  "  Whoa  —  whoa,  sah  !  " 

Pending  it  all,  and  seeing  that  more  talk  was  com 
ing,  Ben  Butler  promptly  went  to  sleep.  Finally  the 
old  man  brought  out  a  faded  poster.  It  was  Travis's 
challenge  and  conditions. 


384        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  Jes'  read  it,"  said  the  old  driver,  "  an'  see  if  I  ain't 
under  the  conditions." 

The  starting  judge  read:  "  Open  to  the  Tennessee 
V alley  —  trot  or  pace.  Parties  entering,  other  than  the 
match  makers,  to  pay  fifty  dollars  at  the  wire." 

"Phew!"  said  the  starting  judge,  as  he  scratched 
his  head.  Then  he  stroked  his  chin  and  re-read  the 
conditions,  looking  humorously  down  over  his  glasses 
at  the  queer  combination  before  him. 

The  audience  took  it  in  and  began  to  shout :  "  Let 
him  in  !  Let  him  in  !  It's  fair !  " 

But  others  felt  outraged  and  shouted  back :  "  No  — 
put  him  out !  Put  him  out !  " 

The  starting  judge  clanged  his  bell  again,  and  the 
other  three  starters  came  up. 

Flecker,  good-natured  and  fat,  his  horse  in  a  warm 
ing-up  foam,  laughed  till  he  swayed  in  the  sulky.  Col. 
Troup,  dignified  and  reserved,  said  nothing.  But  Travis 
swore. 

"  It's  preposterous !  —  it  will  make  the  race  a  farce. 
We're  out  for  blood  and  that  purse.  This  is  no  com 
edy,"  he  said. 

The  old  man  only  smiled  and  said :  "  I'm  sorry  to 
spile  the  sport  of  gentlemen,  but  bein'  gentlemen,  I 
know  they  will  stan'  by  their  own  rules." 

"  It's  here  in  black  and  white,  Travis,"  said  the  starter, 
"  You  made  it  yourself." 

"  Oh,  hell,"  said  Travis  hotly,  "  that  was  mere  form 
and  to  satisfy  the  Valley.  I  thought  the  entrance  fee 
would  bar  any  outsider." 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  385 

"  But  it  didn't,"  said  the  Judge,  "  and  you  know  the 
rules." 

"Let  him  start,  let  the  Hill-Billy  start!"  shouted 
the  crowd,  and  then  there  was  a  tumult  of  hisses,  groans 
and  cat-calls. 

Then  it  was  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  that  it  was 
the  old  Cottontown  preacher,  and  the  excitement  grew 
intense. 

It  was  the  most  comical,  most  splendid  joke  ever 
played  in  the  Valley.  Travis  was  not  popular,  neither 
was  the  dignified  Col.  Troup.  Up  to  this  time  the 
crowd  had  not  cared  who  won  the  purse;  nor  had  they 
cared  which  of  the  pretty  trotters  received  the  crown. 
It  meant  only  a  little  more  swagger  and  show  and  money 
to  throw  away. 

But  here  was  something  human,  pathetic.  Here  was 
a  touch  of  the  stuff  that  made  the  grand-stand  kin  to 
the  old  man.  The  disreputable  cart,  the  lifeless,  blind 
old  pacer,  the  home-made  harness,  the  seediness  of  it 
all  —  the  pathos. 

Here  was  the  quaint  old  man,  who,  all  his  life,  had 
given  for  others,  here  was  the  ex-overseer  and  the  ex- 
trainer  of  the  Travis  stables,  trying  to  win  the  purse 
from  gentlemen. 

"  Ten  to  one,"  said  a  prosperous  looking  man,  as  he 
looked  quietly  on  —  "  the  Bishop  wants  it  for  charity 
or  another  church.  Like  as  not  he  knows  of  some 
poverty-stricken  family  he's  going  to  feed." 

"  If  that's  so,"  shouted  two  young  fellows  who  were 
listening,  and  who  were  partisans  of  Flecker  of  Ten- 


25 


386        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

nessee,  "  if  that's  the  way  of  it,  we'll  go  over  and  take 
a  hand  in  seeing  that  he  has  fair  play." 

They  arose  hastily,  each  shifting  a  pistol  in  his  pock 
et,  and  butted  through  the  crowd  which  was  thronged 
around  the  Judge's  stand,  where  the  old  man  sat  quietly 
smiling  from  his  cart,  and  Travis  and  Troup  were  talk 
ing  earnestly. 

"  Damned  if  I  let  Trombine  start  against  such  a 
combination  as  that,  sah.  I'll  drive  off  the  track  now, 
sah  —  damned  if  I  don't,  sah  !  " 

But  the  two  young  men  had  spoken  to  big  fat  Flecker 
of  Tennessee,  and  he  arose  in  his  sulky-seat  and  said: 
"  Now,  gentlemen,  clear  the  track  and  let  us  race.  We 
will  let  the  old  man  start.  Say,  old  man,"  he  laughed, 
"  you  won't  feel  bad  if  we  shut  you  out  the  fust  heat, 
eh?" 

"  No,"  smiled  the  Bishop  —  "  an,  I  'spec  you  will. 
Why,  the  old  hoss  ain't  raced  in  ten  years." 

"  Oh,  say,  I  thought  you  were  going  to  say  twenty," 
laughed  Flecker. 

Some  rowdy  had  crowded  around  the  old  cart  and 
attempted  to  unscrew  the  axle  tap.  But  some  one 
reached  over  the  head  of  the  crowd  and  gripped  him 
where  his  shoulder  and  arm  met,  and  pulled  him  forward 
arid  twirled  him  around  like  a  top. 

It  was  enough.  It  was  ten  minutes  before  he  could 
lift  up  his  arm  at  all ;  it  felt  dead. 

"  Don't  hurt  nobody,  Jack,"  whispered  the  old  man, 
"  be  keerful." 

The  crowd  were  for  the  old  man.      They  still  shouted 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  387 

— "  Fair  play,  fair  play  —  let  him  start,"  and  they  came 
thronging  and  crowding  on  the  track. 

"  Clear  the  track,"  cried  the  starting- judge  to  a 
deputy  sheriff  in  charge  — "  I'll  let  him  start." 

This  set  the  crowd  in  a  roar. 

"  Square  man,"  they  yelled  —  "  Square  man !  " 

Travis  bit  his  lips  and  swore. 

"  Why,  damn  him,"  he  said,  "  we'll  lose  him  the  first 
heat.  I'll  shut  him  out  myself." 

"  We  will,  sah,  we  will !  "  said  Col.  Troup.  "  But  if 
that  rattling  contraption  skeers  my  mare,  I'll  appeal  to 
the  National  Association,  sah.  I'll  appeal  —  sah,"  and 
he  drove  off  up  the  stretch,  hotter  than  his  mare. 

And  now  the  track  was  cleared  —  the  grand  stand 
hummed  and  buzzed  with  excitement. 

It  was  indeed  the  greatest  joke  ever  played  in  the 
Tennessee  Valley.  Not  that  there  was  going  to  be  any 
change  in  the  race,  not  that  the  old  preacher  had  any 
chance,  driving  as  he  did  this  bundle  of  ribs  and  ugli 
ness,  and  hitched  to  such  a  cart  —  but  that  he  dared 
try  it  at  all,  and  against  the  swells  of  horsedom.  There 
would  be  one  heat  of  desperate  fun  and  then  — 

A  good-natured,  spasmodic  gulp  of  laughter  ran  clear 
through  the  grand-stand,  and  along  with  it,  from  ex 
cited  groups,  from  the  promenade,  from  the  track  and 
infield  and  stables,  even,  came  such  expressions  as  these : 

"  Worth  ten  dollars  to  see  it !  " 

"  Wouldn't  take  a  hoss  for  the  sight !  " 

"  If  he  did  happen  to  beat  that  trio  of  sports!  " 

iw  Boss,  it's  gwinter  to  be  a  hoss  race  from  wire  to 
wire !  " 


388        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  Oh,  pshaw !  one  heat  of  fun  —  they'll  shut  him 
out!" 

In  heart,  the  sympathy  of  the  crowd  was  all  with  the 
old  preacher. 

The  old  man  had  a  habit  when  keyed  to  high  pitch, 
emotionally,  of  talking  to  himself.  He  seemed  to  re 
gard  himself  as  a  third  person,  and  this  is  the  way  he 
told  it,  heat  by  heat: 

"  Fus'  heat,  Ben  Butler  —  Now  if  we  can  manage 
to  save  our  distance  an'  leave  the  flag  a  few  yards,  we'll 
be  doin'  mighty  well.  Long  time  since  you  stretched 
them  ole  muscles  of  yo's  in  a  race  —  long  time  — an' 
they're  tied  up  and  sore.  Ever'  heat'll  be  a  wuck  out 
to  you  till  you  git  hot.  If  I  kin  only  stay  in  till  you  git 
hot  —  (Clang  —  clang  —  clang).  That's  the  starter's 
bell.  Yes  —  we'll  score  now  —  the  f us'  heat'll  be  our 
wuss.  They've  got  it  in  fur  us  —  they'll  set  the  pace 
an'  try  to  shet  us  out  an',  likely  es  not,  do  it.  God  he'p 
us  —  Shiloh  —  Cap'n  Tom  —  it's  only  for  them,  Ben 
Butler  —  fur  them.  (Clang!  —  Clang!)  Slow  there 
—  heh  —  heh  —  Steady  —  ah-h !  " 

Clang  —  clang-clang!  vigorously.  The  starter  was 
calling  them  back. 

They  had  scored  down  for  the  first  time,  but  the  hot 
heads  had  been  too  fast  for  the  old  ambler.  In  their 
desire  to  shut  him  out,  they  rushed  away  like  a  whirl 
wind.  The  old  pacer  followed,  rocking  and  rolling  in 
his  lazy  way.  He  wiggled,  shuffled,  skipped,  and  when 
the  strain  told  on  the  sore  old  muscles,  he  winced,  and 
was  left  at  the  wire! 

The  crowd  jeered  and  roared  with  laughter. 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  389 

"He'll  never  get  off!" 

"  He's  screwed  there  —  fetch  a  screw  driver !  " 

"  Pad  his  head,  he'll  fall  on  it  nex' !  " 

"  Go  back,  gentlemen,  go  back,"  shouted  the  starter, 
"  and  try  again.      The  old  pacer  was  on  a  break " 
Clang  —  clang  —  clang!  and  he  jerked  his  bell  vigor 
ously. 

Travis  was  furious  as  he  drove  slowly  back.  "  I  had 
to  pull  my  mare  double  to  stop  her,"  he  called  to  the 
starter.  "  We  were  all  aligned  but  the  old  pacer  —  why 
didn't  you  let  us  go  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  starting  these  horses  by  the  rules, 
Mr.  Travis.  I  know  my  business,"  said  the  starter 
hotly. 

Col.  Troup  was  blue  in  the  face  with  rage. 

Flecker  laughed. 

They  all  turned  again  and  came  down,  the  numbers 
on  the  drivers'  arms  showing  1,  2,  3,  4  --  Travis,  Troup, 
Flecker,  and  the  old  Bishop,  respectively. 

"  Ben  Butler,  ole  hoss,  this  ain't  no  joke  —  you  mus' 
go  this  time.  We  ain't  goin'  to  meetin'  -  -  Stretch  them 
ole  legs  as  you  did !  —  oh,  that's  better  —  ef  we  could 
only  score  a  few  more  times  —  look  !  —  ah !  " 

Clang  —  clang  —  clang! 

This  time  it  was  Col.  Troup's  mare.  She  broke  just 
at  the  wire. 

"  She  saved  us  that  time,  Ben  Butler.  We  wus  two 
rods  behind  — 

They  came  down  the  third  time.  "  Now,  thank  God, 
he's  jes'  beginnin'  to  unlimber,"  chuckled  the  old  man  as 
the  old  pacer,  catching  on  to  the  game  and  warming  to 


390         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

his  work,  was  only  a  length  behind  at  the  wire,  as  they 
scored  the  fourth  time,  when  Flecker's  mare  flew  up  in 
the  air  and  again  the  bell  clanged. 

The  crowd  grew  impatient.  The  starter  warned  them 
that  time  was  up  and  that  he'd  start  them  the  next  time 
they  came  down  if  he  had  the  ghost  of  a  chance.  . 

Again  they  aligned  and  came  thundering  down.  The 
old  man  was  pale  and  silent,  and  Ben  Butler  felt  the 
lines  telegraphing  nervous  messages  to  his  bitted  mouth ; 
but  all  he  heard  was:  "Shiloh  —  Cap'n  Tom  — 
Steady,  old  hoss!  " 

"Go!" 

It  sounded  like  a  gun-shot  in  the  old  man's  ears. 
There  was  a  whirr  of  wheels,  a  patter  of  feet  grappling 
with  dirt  and  throwing  it  all  over  him  —  another  whirr 
and  flutter  and  buzz  as  of  a  covey  flushed,  and  the 
field  was  off,  leaving  him  trailing. 

"  Whew,  Ben  Butler,  we're  in  fur  it  now  —  the  Lord 
'a-mussy  on  our  souls !  Take  the  pole  —  s'artenly, — 
it's  all  yowin,  since  you're  behin' !  Steady  ole  hoss, 
there's  one  consolation, —  they're  breakin'  the  wind  for 
you,  an'  thank  God !  —  yes  Ben  Butler,  look !  they're 
after  one  other, —  they're  racin'  like  Tarn  O'Shanter  an' 
cookin'  each  other  to  a  gnat's  heel  —  Oh,  Lord  what 
fools !  It'll  tell  on  'em  —  if  we  can  only  save  our  dis 
tance —  this  heat  —  jes'  save  our  distance  —  Wh-o-p, 
sah !  Oh,  my  Lord,  told  you  so  —  Troup's  mare's  up 
an'  dancin'  like  a  swamp  rabbit  by  moonlight.  Who-op, 
sah,  steady  ole  hoss  —  there  now  we've  passed  him  — 
Trombine  and  Lizette  ahead  —  steady  —  let  'em  go,  big 
devil,  little  devil,  an'  pumpin'  each  other  —  Go  now,  go 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  391 

old  boss,  now's  the  time  to  save  our  distance  —  go  old 
hoss,  step  lively  now  —  'tain't  no  meetin',  no  Sunday 
School  —  it's  life,  bread  and  a  chance  for  Cap'n  Tom ! 
Oh,  but  you  ain't  forgot  entirely,  no-no, —  ain't  forgot 
that  you  come  in  answer  to  prayer,  ain't  forgot  that  half 
in  one-one,  ain't  forgot  yo'  pious  raisin',  yo'  pedigree. 
Ain't  forgot  you're  racin'  for  humanity  an'  a  chance, 
ain't  forgot  —  there !  the  flag  —  my  God  and  safe !  " 

He  had  passed  the  flag.  Lizzctte  and  Trombine  were 
already  at  the  wire,  but  poor  Troup  —  his  mare  had 
never  been  able  to  settle  after  her  wild  break,  and  she 
caught  the  flag  square  in  the  face. 

The  crowd  met  the  old  pacer  with  a  yell  of  delight. 
He  had  not  been  shut  out  —  marvel  of  marvels ! 

It  was  getting  interesting  indeed. 

Bud  and  Jack  met  him  with  water  and  a  blanket. 
How  proud  they  were!  But  the  heavy  old  cart  had 
told  on  Ben  Butler.  He  panted  like  a  hound,  he  stag 
gered  and  was  distressed. 

"  He'll  get  over  that,"  said  the  old  driver  cheerily  to 
Bud's  tearful  gaze — "  he  ain't  used  to  it  yet — ten  years, 
think  of  it,"  and  Jack  led  Ben  Butler  blanketed  away. 

The  old  man  looked  at  the  summary  the  judges  had 
hung  up.  It  was : 

1st  Heat:  Trumps,  1st;  Lizzette,  2nd;  Ben  Butler, 
3rd;  Trombine  distanced.  Time,  2 :17%. 

Then  he  heard  a  man  swearing  elegantly.  It  was 
Col.  Troup.  He  was  sitting  in  his  sulky  in  front  of  the 
grand  stand  and  talking  to  Travis  and  the  genial 
Flecker : 

"  A  most  unprofessional  thing,  gentlemen, —  damned 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

unprofessional,  sah,  to  shut  me  out.  Yes,  sah,  to  shut 
out  a  gentleman,  sah,  an'  the  first  heat,  sah,  with  his 
horse  on  a  break." 

"What!"  said  Flecker  excitedly  — "  you,  Col'nel? 
Shut  out  —  why,  I  thought  it  was  the  old  pacer." 

"  I  swear  I  did,  too,  Colonel,"  said  Travis  apologeti 
cally.  "  I  heard  something  rattling  and  galloping 
along  —  I  thought  it  was  the  old  pacer  and  I  drove  like 
the  devil  to  shut  him  out !  " 

"  It  was  me,  sah,  me !  damned  unprofessional,  sah ; 
my  mare  throwed  a  boot !  " 

He  walked  around  and  swore  for  ten  minutes.  Then 
he  quieted  down  and  began  to  think.  He  was  shut  out 
-  his  money  was  gone.  But  —  "  By  gad,  sah,"  he  said 
cracking  his  whip  —  "  By  gad  I'll  do  it !  " 

Ten  minutes  later  as  Ben  Butler,  cooled  and  calm, 
was  being  led  out  for  the  second  heat,  Col.  Troup  puffed 
boisterously  up  to  the  Bishop :  *  Old  man,  by  gad, 
sah,  I  want  you  to  use  my  sulky  and  harness.  It's  a 
hundred  pounds  lighter  than  that  old  ox-cart  you've 
got.  I'm  goin'  to  he'p  you,  sah,  beat  that  pair  of  short 
dogs  that  shets  out  a  gentleman  with  his  horse  on  a 
break,  sah !  " 

And  that  was  how  the  old  man  drew  first  blood  and 
came  out  in  a  new  sulky  and  harness. 

How  proud  Ben  Butler  seemed  to  feel !  How  much 
lighter  and  how  smoothly  it  ran ! 

They  got  the  word  at  the  first  score,  Trumps  and 
Lizzette  going  at  it  hammer  and  tongs  —  Ben  Butler, 
as  usual,  trailing. 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  393 

The  old  man  sat  pale  and  ashy,  but  driving  like  the 
born  reinsman  that  he  was. 

"  Steady,  old  boss,  steady  agin' — jes'  save  our  dis 
tance,  that's  all  —  they've  done  forgot  us  —  done  forgot 
us  —  don't  know  we're  here.  They'll  burn  up  each 
other  an'  then,  oh,  Ben  Butler,  God  he'p  us!  Cap'n 
Tom,  Cap'n  Tom  an'  Shiloh  !  Steady,  whoa  there !  - 
Lord,  how  you're  lar'nin'  !  How  the  old  clip  is  comin' 
agin  !  Ho  —  hi  —  there  ole  hoss  —  here  we  are  — 
what  a  bresh  of  speed  he's  got  —  hi  —  ho  !  " 

And  the  grand-stand  was  cheering  again,  and  as  the 
old  man  rode  up  the  judges  hung  out: 

%nd  Heat:  Trumps,  1st;  Lizzette,  2nd;  Ben  Butler, 
3rd.  Time,  2:15i/o. 

The  old  man  looked  at  it  in  wonder :  "  Two  fifteen 
an'  not  shet  out,  Ben  Butler?  Only  five  lengths  be 
hind?  My  God,  can  we  make  it  —  can  we  make  it?  " 

His  heart  beat  wildly.  For  the  first  time  he  began  to 
hope. 

Trumps  now  had  two  heats.  As  the  race  was  best 
three  out  of  five,  one  more  heat  meant  that  Flecker  of 
Tennessee  would  win  the  race  and  the  purse.  But  when 
the  old  man  glanced  at  Trumps,  his  experienced  eye  told 
him  the  gallant  gelding  was  all  out  —  he  was  distressed 
greatly  —  in  a  paroxyism  of  thumps.  He  glanced  at 
Lizzette.  She  was  breathing  freely  and  was  fresh.  His 
heart  fell. 

"  Trumps  is  done  fur,  Ben  Butler,  but  Lizzette  — 
what  will  Travis  do?  —  Ah,  ole  hoss,  we're  up  ag'in  it!  " 

It  was  too  true,  as  the  next  heat  proved.  Away 
Trumps  and  Lizzette  went,  forgetful  of  all  else,  while 


394        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

the  old  man  trailed  behind,  talking  to,  soothing,  coaxing 
the  old  horse  and  driving  him  as  only  a  master  could. 

"  They're  at  it  ag'in  —  ole  hoss,  what  fools !     Whoa 

—  steady  there !     Trumps  is  done  fur,  an'  you'll  see  — 

No  sand  left  in  his  crops,  cooked  —  watch  an'  see,  oh, 

my,  Ben  Butler  —  there  —  he's  up  now  —  up  an'  done 

fur  —  Go  now  —  move  some  —  hi  — 

Trumps  and  Lizzette  had  raced  it  out  to  the  head 
of  the  stretch.  But  Trumps  was  not  equal  to  the  clip 
which  Travis  had  made  cyclonic,  knowing  the  horse  was 
sadly  distressed.  Trumps  stood  it  as  long  as  flesh  and 
blood  could,  and  then  jumped  into  the  air,  in  a  heart 
broken,  tired  break.  It  was  then  that  the  old  man  began 
to  drive,  and  moving  like  well-balanced  machinery,  the 
old  pacer  caught  again  the  spirit  of  his  youth,  as  the 
oM  time  speed  came  back,  and  leaving  Trumps  behind 
he  even  butted  his  bull-dog  nose  into  the  seat  of  Liz- 
zette's  sulky,  and  clung  determinedly  there,  right  up  to 
the  wire,  beaten  only  by  a  length. 

Lizzette  had  won  the  heat.     The  judge  hung  out: 

3rd  Heat:  Lizzette,  1st;  Ben  Butler,  2nd;  Trumps 
distanced.  Time,  %:W. 

Lizzette  had  won,  but  the  crowd  had  begun  to  see. 

"The  old  pacer  —  the  old  pacer!"  -they  yelled. 

Travis  bit  his  lip  — "  what  did  it  all  mean  ?  He  had 
won  the  heat.  Trumps  was  shut  out,  and  there  they 
were  yelling  for  the  old  pacer !  " 

The  Bishop  was  pale  to  the  roots  of  his  hair  when 
he  got  out  of  the  sulky. 

"  Great  hoss !  great !  great !  "  yelled  Bud  as  he 
trotted  along  bringing  the  blanket. 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  395 

•  The  old  man  bowed  his  head  in  the  sulky-seat,  a  mo 
ment,  amid  the  crash  of  the  band  and  the  noise  of  the 
crowd : 

"  Dear  God  —  my  Father  —  I  thank  Thee.     Not  for 
me  —  not  for  Ben  Butler  —  but  for  life  —  life  —  for 
Shiloh  —  and  Cap'n  Tom.     Help  us  —  old  and  blind  - 
help  us !     O  God  — " 

Col.  Troup  grasped  his  hand.  The  Tennesseans, 
followers  of  Flecker,  flocked  around  him.  Flecker,  too, 
was  there  —  chagrined,  maddened  —  he  too  had  joined 
his  forces  with  the  old  Bishop. 

"  Great  Scott,  old  man,  how  you  do  drive !  We've 
hedged  on  you  —  me  and  the  Colonel  —  we've  put  up 
a  thousand  each  that  you'll  win.  We've  cooked  our 
selves  good  and  hard.  Now  drive  from  hell  to  breakfast 
next  heat,  and  Travis  is  yo'  meat !  Fools  that  we  were ! 
We've  cut  each  other  to  pieces  like  a  pair  of  cats  tied 
by  the  tails.  Travis  is  at  your  mercy." 

"  Yes,  sah,  Flecker  is  right.  Travis  is  yo'  meat, 
sah,"  said  the  Colonel,  solemnly. 

The  old  man  walked  around  with  his  lips  moving  si 
lently,  and  a  great  pulsing,  bursting,  gripping  pain  in 
his  heart  —  a  pain  which  was  half  a  hope  and  half 
despair. 

The  crowd  was  on  tip-toe.  Never  before  had  such  a 
race  been  paced  in  the  Tennessee  Valley.  Could  he  take 
the  next  heat  from  Lizzette?  If  he  could,  he  had  her 
at  his  mercy. 

Grimly  they  scored  down.  Travis  sullen  that  he  had 
to  fight  the  old  pacer,  but  confident  of  shutting  him 
out  this  time.  Confident  and  maddened.  The  old  man, 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

as  was  his  wont  in  great  emergencies,  had  put  a  bullet 
in  his  mouth  to  clinch  his  teeth  on.  He  had  learned  it 
from  Col.  Jeremiah  Travis,  who  said  Jackson  did  it 
when  he  killed  Dickinson,  and  at  Tallapoosa,  and  at 
New  Orleans. 

"  GO ! " 

And  he  heard  Travis  whirl  away  with  a  bitter  curse 
that  floated  back.  Then  the  old  man  shot  out  in  the 
long,  stealing,  time-eating  stride  the  old  pacer  had,  and 
coming  up  just  behind  Lizzette's  sulky  he  hung  there  in 
a  death  struggle. 

One  quarter,  half,  three-quarters,  and  still  they  swung 
around  —  locked  -  -  Travis  bitter  with  hot  oaths  and  the 
old  man  pale  with  prayer.  He  could  see  Travis's  eyes 
flashing  lightning  hatred  across  the  narrow  space  be 
tween  them  —  hatred,  curses,  but  the  old  man  prayed  on. 

"  The  flag  —  now  —  ole  hoss  —  for  Jesus'  sake !  — " 

He  reached  out  in  the  old  way,  lifted  his  horse  by 
sheer  great  force  and  fairly  flung  him  ahead !  — 

"  Flu-r-r-r !  "  it  was  Lizzette's  breath  as  he  went 
by  her.  He  shot  his  eyes  quickly  sideways  as  she 
flailed  the  air  with  her  forefeet  within  a  foot  of  his 
head.  Her  eyes  glowed,  sunken, —  beat  —  in  their 
sockets;  with  mouth  wide  open,  collapsed,  frantic,  in 
heart-broken  dismay,  she  wabbled,  staggered  and  quit! 

"Oh,  God  bless  you,  Ben  Butler!—" 

But  that  instant  in  the  air  with  her  mouth  wide  open 
within  a  foot  of  the  old  man's  head  her  lower  teeth 
exposed,  the  old  driver  saw  she  was  only  four  years  old. 
Why  had  he  noticed  it?  What  mental  telepathy  in 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  397 

great  crises  cause  us  to  see  the  trifles  on  which  often  the 
destiny  of  our  life  hangs? 

Ben  Butler,  stubborn,  flying,  was  shaking  his  game 
old  head  in  a  bull-dog  way  as  he  went  under  the  wire. 
It  maddened  him  to  be  pulled  up. 

"  So,  softly,  softly  old  fellow  !  We've  got  'em  licked, 
you've  got  religin'  in  yo'  heels,  too.  Ain't  been  goin' 
to  church  for  ten  years  for  nothin'  !  " 

The  old  man  wanted  to  shout,  and  yet  he  was  actually 
shedding  tears,  talking  hysterically  and  trembling  all 
over.  He  heard  in  a  dazed  way  the  yells  and  thunder 
from  the  grand-stand.  But  he  was  faint  and  dizzy,  and 
worst  of  all,  as  he  laughed  to  himself  and  said  :  "  Kin 
der  sissy  an'  soft  in  spots." 

Jack  and  Bud  had  Ben  Butler  and  were  gone.  No 
wonder  the  grand-stand  pulsed  with  human  emotion. 
Never  before  had  anything  been  done  like  this.  The 
old,  blind  pacer,  —  the  quaint  old  preacher  —  the  thing 
they  were  going  to  shut  out,  —  the  pathos,  the  splendor 
of  it  all,  —  shook  them  as  humanity  will  ever  be  shaken 
when  the  rejected  stone  comes  up  in  the  beauty  of  purest 
marble.  Here  it  was: 

4th  Heat:     Ben  Butler,   1st;   Lizzette,  2nd.     Time, 


What  a  record  it  was  for  the  old  pacer!  Starting 
barely  able  to  save  his  distance,  he  had  grown  in  speed 
and  strength  and  now  had  the  mare  at  his  mercy  —  the 
two  more  heats  he  had  yet  to  win  would  be  a  walk  around 
for  him. 

Oh,  it  was  glorious  —  glorious  ! 

"  Oh,  by  gad,  sah,"  shouted  Col.  Troup,  pompously. 


398        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  I  guess  I've  hedged  all  right.  Travis  will  pay  my 
thousand.  He'll  know  how  to  shet  out  gentlemen  the 
nex'  time.  Oh,  by  gad,  sah  !  " 

Flecker  and  the  Tennesseans  took  drinks  and  shouted 
themselves  hoarse. 

Then  the  old  preacher  did  something,  but  why  he 
never  could  explain.  It  seemed  intuition  when  lie 
thought  of  it  afterwards.  Calling  Col.  Troup  to  him 
he  said :  "  I'm  kinder  silly  an'  groggy,  Col'nel,  but 
I  wish  you'd  go  an'  look  in  her  mouth  an'  see  how  old 
Lizzette  is." 

The  Colonel  looked  at  him,  puzzled. 

"Why?"    .• 

"  Oh,  I  dunno,  Col'nel  —  but  when  a  thing  comes  on 
me  that  away,  maybe  it's  because  I'm  so  nervous  an' 
upsot,  but  somehow  I  seem  to  have  a  second  sight  when 
I  git  in  this  fix.  I  wanted  you  to  tell  me." 

"  What's  it  got  to  do  with  the  race,  sah !  There  is 
no  bar  to  age.  Have  you  any  susp  — ' 

"  Oh,  no  —  no  —  Col'nel,  it's  jes'  a  warnin',  an  intui 
tion.  I've  had  'em  often,  it's  always  from  God.  I 
b'leeve  it's  Him  tellin'  me  to  watch,  watch  an'  pray.  I 
had  it  when  Ben  Butler  come,  thar;  come  in  answer  to 
prayer  — : 

Colonel  Troup  smiled  and  walked  off.  In  a  short 
while  he  sauntered  carelessly  back: 

"  Fo'  sah,  she  was  fo'  years  old  this  last  spring." 

"  Thank  ye,  Col'nel !  " 

The  Colonel  smiled  and  whispered :  "  Oh,  how  cooked 
she  is!  Dead  on  her  feet,  dead.  Don't  drive  yo'  ole 
pacer  hard  —  jes'  walk  around  him,  sah.  Do  as  you 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  399 

please,  you've  earned  the  privilege.  It's  yo'  walk  over 
an'  yo'  money." 

The  fifth  heat  was  almost  a  repetition  of  the  fourth, 
the  old  pacer  beating  the  tired  mare  cruelly,  pacing  her 
to  a  standstill.  It  was  all  over  with  Lizzette,  anyone 
could  see  that.  The  judges  hung  out: 

5th  Heat:  Ben  Butler,  1st;  Lizzette,  2nd.  Time, 
2:24. 

Travis's  face  was  set,  set  in  pain  and  disappointment 
when  he  went  to  the  stable.  He  looked  away  off,  he 
saw  no  one.  He  smoked.  He  walked  over  to  the  stall 
where  they  were  cooling  Lizzette  out. 

"  Take  the  full  twenty  minutes  to  cool  her,  Jim." 

In  the  next  stall  stood  Sadie  B.  She  had  been  driven 
around  by  Jud  Carpenter,  between  heats,  to  exercise  her, 
he  had  said.  She  was  warmed  up,  and  ready  for  speed. 

Travis  stood  watching  Lizzette  cool  out.  Jud  came 
up  and  stood  looking  searchingly  at  him.  There  was 
but  a  glance  and  a  nod,  and  Travis  walked  over  to  the 
grand-stand,  light-hearted  and  even  iolty,  where  he 
stood  in  a  group  of  society  folks. 

He  was  met  by  a  protest  of  feminine  raillery :  "Oh, 
our  gloves,  our  candy !  Oh,  Mr.  Travis,  to  get  beat  that 
way !  " 

He  laughed :  "  I'll  pay  all  you  ladies  lose.  I  was 
just  playing  with  the  old  pacer.  Bet  more  gloves  and 
candy  on  the  next  heat !  " 

"  Oh  —  oh,"  they  laughed.  "  No  —  no-o !  We've 
seen  enough !  " 

Travis  smiled  and  walked  off.  He  turned  at  the  gate 
and  threw  them  back  a  bantering  kiss. 


400         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  You'll  see  — "  was  all  he  said. 

The  old  man  spent  the  twenty  minutes  helping  to  rub 
off  Ben  Butler. 

"  It  does  me  good  —  kinder  unkeys  me,"  he  said  to 
Bud  and  Jack.  He  put  his  ear  to  the  old  horses'  flank 

—  it  pulsed  strong  and  true. 

Then  he  laughed  to  himself.  It  vexed  him,  for  it 
was  half  hysterical  and  he  kept  saying  over  to  himself : 

"  Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord  God  Almighty  — 

All  Thy  works  shall  praise  Thy  name,  in  earth  and 

sky  and  sea ; 
Holy,  holy,  holy,  merciful  and  mighty  — " 

Some  one  touched  his  arm.  It  was  Jack :  "  Bishop, 
Bishop,  time's  up !  We're  ready.  Do  you  hear  the 
bell  clanging?  " 

The  Bishop  nodded,  dazed: 

"  Here,  you're  kinder  feeble,  weak  an',  an'  sorter 
silly.  Why,  Bishop,  you're  recitin'  poetry  — "  said 
Jack  apologetically.  "  A  man's  gone  when  he  does  that 

—  here!" 

He  had  gone  to  the  old  man's  saddle  bags,  and 
brought  out  his  ancient  flask. 

"  Jes'  a  swaller  or  two,  Bishop,"  he  said  coaxingly, 
as  one  talking  to  a  child  — "  Quick,  now,  you're  not 
yo'self  exactly  —  you've  dropped  into  poetry." 

"  I  guess  I  am  a  little  teched,  Jack,  but  I  don't  need 
that  when  I  can  get  poetry,  sech  poetry  as  is  now  in 
me.  Jack,  do  you  want  to  hear  the  gran'est  verse  ever 
writ  in  poetry  ?  " 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  401 

«  NO  —  no,  Bishop,  don't !  Jack  Bracken's  yo' 
friend,  he'll  freeze  to  you.  You'll  be  all  right  soon. 
It's  jes'  a  little  spell.  Brace  up  an'  drop  that  stuff." 

The  old  man  smiled  sadly  as  if  he  pitied  Jack.  Then 
he  repeated  slowly: 

"  Holy,  holy,  holy,  all  the  saints  adore  Thee 
Castin'   down  their  golden  crowns  around  the  glassy 

sea; 

Cherubim  an'  Seraphim,  fallin'  down  before  Thee 
Which  wert  an'  art,  an'  ever  more  .shall  be.'5 

Feebly  he  leaned  on  Jack,  the  tears  ran  down  his 
cheek :  "  'Tain't  weakness,  Jack,  'tain't  that  —  it's  joy, 
it's  love  of  God,  Whose  done  so  much  for  me.  It's  the 
glory,  glory  of  them  lines  —  Oh,  God  —  what  a  line 
of  poetry ! 

"  Castin'  down  their  golden  crowns  around  the  glassy 
sea!" 

Ben  Butler  stood  ready,  the  bell  clanged  again.  Jack 
helped  him  into  the  sulky;  never  had  he  seen  the  old 
man  so  feeble.  Travis  was  already  at  the  post. 

They  got  the  word  immediately,  but  to  the  old  man's 
dismay,  Travis's  mare  shot  away  like  a  scared  doe, 
trotting  as  frictionless  as  a  glazed  emery  wheel. 

The  old  man  shook  up  Ben  Butler  and  wondered  why 
he  seemed  to  stand  so  still.  The  old  horse  did  his  best, 
he  paced  as  he  never  had  before,  but  the  flying  thing 


26 


402        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

like  a  red  demon  flitted  always  just  before  him,  a  thing 
with  tendons  of  steel  and  feet  of  fire. 

"Oh,  God,  Ben  Butler,  what  is  it  —  what?  Have 
you  quit  on  me,  ole  hoss?  —  you,  Ben  Butler,  you  that 
come  in  answer  to  prayer?  My  God,  Cap'n  Tom, 
Shiloh !  " 

And  still  before  him  flew  the  red  thing  with  wings. 

At  the  half,  at  the  three-quarters :  "  Now  ole  hoss !  " 
And  the  old  horse  responded  gamely,  grandly.  He 
thundered  like  a  cyclone  bursting  through  a  river-bed. 
Foot  by  foot,  inch  by  inch,  he  came  up  to  Travis's 
mare.  Nose  to  nose  they  flew  along.  There  was  a 
savage  yell  —  a  loud  cracking  of  Travis'  whip  in  the 
blind  horse's  ears.  Never  had  the  sightless  old  horse 
had  such  a  fright !  He  could  not  see  —  he  could  only 
hear  the  terrible,  savage  yell.  Frightened,  he  forgot, 
he  dodged,  he  wavered  — 

"  Steady,  Ben  Butler,  don't  —  oh  —  " 

It  was  a  small  trick  of  Travis',  for  though  the  old 
pacer  came  with  a  rush  that  swept  everything  before  it, 
the  drive  had  been  made  too  late.  Travis  had  the  heat 
won  already. 

Still  there  was  no  rule  against  it.  He  could  yell  and 
crack  his  whip  and  make  all  the  noise  he  wished,  and  if 
the  other  horse  was  frightened,  it  was  the  fault  of  his 
nerves.  Everybody  who  knew  anything  of  racing  knew 
that, 

A  perfect  tornado  of  hisses  met  Travis  at  the  grand 
stand. 

But  he  had  won  the  heat!  What  did  he  care?  He 
could  scarcely  stop  his  mare.  She  seemed  like  a  bird  and 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  403 

as  fresh.  He  pulled  her  double  to  make  her  turn  and 
come  back  after  winning,  and  as  she  came  she  still  fought 
the  bit. 

As  he  turned,  he  almost  ran  into  the  old  pacer  jog 
ging,  broken-hearted  behind.  The  mare's  mouth  was 
wide  open,  and  the  Bishop's  trained  eye  fell  on  the  long 
tusk-like  lower  teeth,  flashing  in  the  sun. 

Startled,  he  quivered  from  head  to  foot.  He  would 
not  believe  his  own  eyes.  He  looked  closely  again. 
There  was  no  doubt  of  it  —  she  was  eight  years  old ! 

In  an  instant  he  knew  —  his  heart  sank,  "  We're 
robbed,  Cap'n  Tom  —  Shiloh  —  my  God !  " 

Travis  drove  smilingly  back,  amid  hisses  and  cheers 
and  the  fluttering  of  ladies'  handkerchiefs  in  the  boxes. 

"How  about  the  gloves  and  candy  now?"  he  called 
to  them  with  his  cap  in  his  hand. 

Above  the  judges  had  hung  out: 

6th  Heat:  Lizzette,  1st;  Ben  Butler,  2nd.  Time, 
2:14. 

When  Flecker  of  Tennessee  saw  the  time  hung  out, 
he  jumped  from  his  seat  exclaiming:  "  Six  heats  and 
the  last  heat  the  fastest?  Who  ever  heard  of  a  tired 
mare  cutting  ten  seconds  off  that  way?  By  the  eternal, 
but  something's  wrong  there." 

"  Six  heats  an'  the  last  one  the  fastest  —  By  gad, 
sah,"  said  Col.  Troup,  "  It  is  strange.  That  mare  Liz 
zette  is  a  wonder,  an'  by  gad,  sah,  didn't  the  old  pacer 
come?  By  gad,  but  if  he'd  begun  that  drive  jus'  fifty 
yards  sooner  —  our  money  " 

Flecker  groaned :  "  We're  gone,  Colonel  —  one 
thousand  we  put  up  and  the  one  we  hedged  with." 


404        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  By  gad,  sah,  but,  Flecker,  don't  you  think  Lizzette 
went  smoother  that  last  heat?  She  had  a  different 
stride,  a  different  gait." 

Flecker  had  not  noticed  it.  "  But  it  was  a  small 
thing,"  he  said  — "  to  frighten  the  old  horse.  No  rule 
against  it,  but  a  gentleman  — 

The  Colonel  smiled :  "  Damn  such  gentlemen,  sah. 
They're  a  new  breed  to  me." 

The  old  man  went  slowly  back  to  the  stable.  He  said 
nothing.  He  walked  dazed,  pale,  trembling,  heart 
broken.  But  never  before  had  he  thought  so  keenly. 

Should  he  expose  Travis  ?  — Ruin  him,  ruin  him  — 
here?  Then  there  passed  quickly  thoughts  of  Cap'n 
Tom  —  of  Miss  Alice.  What  a  chance  to  straighten 
every  thing  out,  right  every  wrong  —  to  act  for  Justice, 
Justice  long  betrayed  —  for  God.  For  God  ?  And 
had  not,  perhaps,  God  given  him  this  opportunity  for 
this  very  purpose  ?  Was  not  God, —  God,  the  ever 
merciful  but  ever  just,  behind  it  all?  Was  it  not  He 
who  caused  him  to  look  at  the  open  mouth  of  the  first 
mare?  Was  it  not  He  giving  him  a  chance  to  right  a 
wrong  so  long,  so  long  delayed?  If  he  failed  to  speak 
out  would  he  not  be  doing  every  man  in  the  race  a 
wrong,  and  Cap'n  Tom  and  Shiloh,  and  even  Miss  Alice, 
so  soon  to  marry  this  man  —  how  it  went  through  him ! 
—  even  God  —  even  God  a  wrong ! 

He  trembled ;  he  could  not  walk.  He  sat  down ;  Jack 
and  Bud  had  the  horse,  the  outlaw's  eyes  flashing  fire  as 
he  led  him  away.  But  Bud,  poor  Bud,  he  was  follow 
ing,  broken-hearted,  blubbering  and  still  saying  between 
his  sobs :  "  Great  —  hoss  —  he  skeered  him !  " 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  405 

The  grand-stand  sat  stupefied,  charged  to  the  explo 
sive  point  with  suppressed  excitement.  Six  terrible  heats 
and  no  horse  had  won  three.  But  now  Lizzette  and  Ben 
Butler  had  two  each  —  who  would  win  the  next,  the 
decisive  heat.  God  help  the  old  preacher,  for  he  had  no 
chance.  Not  after  the  speed  that  mare  showed. 

Colonel  Troup  came  up :     "  By  gad,  sah,  Bishop  — 
don't    give   up  —  you've   got    one    mo'    chance.     Be   as 
game  as  the  ole  boss." 

"  We  are  game,  sir  —  but  —  but,  will  you  do  as  I 
tell  you  an'  swear  to  me  on  yo'  honor  as  a  gentleman 
never  to  speak  till  I  say  the  word?  Will  you  swear  to 
keep  sacred  what  I  show  you,  until  I  let  you  tell  ?  " 

The  Colonel  turned  red :  "  What  do  you-  mean, 
sah?" 

"  Swear  it,  swear  it,  on  yo'  honor  as  a  gentleman  — 

"  On  my  honor  as  a  gentleman,  sah?     I  swear  it." 

"  Go,"  said  the  old  man  quickly,  "  an'  look  in  the 
mouth  of  the  mare  they  are  j  es'  bringin'  in  —  the  mare 
that  won  that  heat.  Go,  an'  remember  yo'  honor  pledged. 
Go  an'  don't  excite  suspicion." 

The  old  man  sat  down  and,  as  he  waited,  he  thought. 
Never  before  had  he  thought  so  hard.  Never  had  such 
a  burden  been  put  upon  him.  When  he  looked  up  Col 
onel  Troup  stood  pale  and  silent  before  him  —  pale  with 
close-drawn  lips  and  a  hot,  fierce,  fighting  gleam  in  his 
eyes. 

"  You've  explained  it,  sah  —  '  he  said.  Then  he 
fumbled  his  pistol  in  his  pocket.  "  Now  —  now,  give 
me  back  my  promise,  my  word.  I  have  two  thousand 


406        THE  BISHOV  OF  COTTONTOWN 

dollars  at  stake,  and  —  and  clean  sport,  sah, —  clean 
sport.  Give  me  back  my  word." 

"  Sit  down,"   said  the  old  man  quietly. 

The  Colonel  sat  down  so  still  that  it  was  painful. 
He  was  calm  but  the  Bishop  saw  how  hard  the  fight 
was. 

Then  the  old  man  broke  out :  "  I  can't  —  O  God,  I 
can't!  I  can't  make  a  character,  why  should  I  take 
one?  It's  so  easy  to  take  a  word  —  a  nod  —  it  is  gone ! 
And  if  left  maybe  it  'ud  come  agin.  Richard  Travis  — 
it  looks  bad  —  he  may  be  bad  —  but  think  what  he 
may  do  yet  —  if  God  but  touch  him?  No  man's  so 
bad  but  that  God  can't  touch  him  —  change  him.  We 
may  live  to  see  him  do  grand  and  noble  things  —  an' 
God  will  touch  him,"  said  the  old  man  hotly,  "  He  will 
yet." 

"  If  you  are  through  with  me,"  said  Colonel  Troup, 
coolly,  "  and  will  give  me  back  my  promise,  I'll  go  and 
touch  him  —  yes,  damn  him,  I'll  shoot  him  as  he  should 
be." 

"  But  I  ain't  gwine  to  g've  it  back,"  smiled  the  old 
man. 

Colonel  Troup  flushed:  "  What'll  you  do,  then? 
Let  him  rob  you  an'  me,  sah?  Steal  my  two  thousand, 
and  Flecker's?  Your  purse  that  you've  already  won 
-  yours  —  yours,  right  this  minute?  Rob  the  public 
in  a  fake  race,  sah?  You've  won  the  purse,  it  is  yours, 
sah.  He  forfeited  it  when  he  brought  out  that  other 
mare.  Think  what  you  are  doing,  sah ! " 

"  Cap'n  Tom  an'  Shiloh,  too  " —  winced  the  old  man. 
"  But  I  forgot  —  you  don't  kno'  —  yes  " —  and  he 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  407 

smiled  triumphantly.  "  Yes,  Col'nel,  I'll  let  him  do 
all  that  if  —  if  God'll  let  it  be.  But  God  won't  let  it 
be!" 

Colonel  Troup  arose  disgusted  —  hot.  "  What  do 
you  mean,  old  man.  Are  you  crazy,  sah?  Give  me 
back  my  word  — ' 

"  Wait  —  no  —  no,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  Col'nel, 
you're  a  man  of  yo'  word  —  wait !  " 

And  he  arose  and  was  gone. 

The  Colonel  swore  soundly.  He  walked  around  and 
damned  everything  in  sight.  He  fumbled  his  pistol  in 
his  pocket,  and  wondered  how  he  could  break  his  word 
and-  yet  keep  it. 

There  was  no  way,  and  he  went  off  to  take  a  drink. 

Bud,  the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks  —  was  rub 
bing  Ben  Butler  down,  and  saying :  "  Great  hoss  — 
great  hoss !  " 

Of  all,  he  and  the  Bishop  had  not  given  up. 

"  I'm  afeard  we'll  have  to  give  it  up,  Bishop,"  said 
Jack. 

"  Me,  me  give  it  up,  Jack?  Me  an'  Ben  Butler  quit 
like  yeller  dogs?  Why,  we're  jes'  beginnin'  to  fight  — 
with  God's  help." 

Then  he  thought  a  moment :  "  Fetch  me  some  cot 
ton." 

He  took  it  and  carefully  packed  it  in  the  old  horse's 
ears. 

"  It  was  a  small  trick,  that  yellin'  and  frightening 
the  ole  hoss,"  said  Jack. 

"  Ben  Butler,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  stepped  back 
*nd  looked  at  the  horse,  kt  Ben  Butler,  I've  got  you  now 


408        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

where  God's  got  me  —  you  can't  see  an'  you  can't  hear. 
You've  got  to  go  by  faith,  by  the  lines  of  faith.  But 
I'll  be  guidin'  'em,  ole  hoss,  as  God  guides  me  —  by 
faith." 

The  audience  sat  numbed  and  nerveless  when  they 
scored  for  the  last  heat.  The  old  pacer's  gallant  fight 
had  won  them  all  —  and  now  —  now  after  winning  two 
heats,  with  only  one  more  to  win  —  now  to  lose  at  last. 
For  he  could  not  win  —  not  over  a  mare  as  fresh  and 
full  of  speed  as  that  mare  now  seemed  to  be.  And  she, 
too,  had  but  one  heat  to  win. 

But  Col.  Troup  had  been  thinking  and  he  stopped  the 
old  man  as  he  drove  out  on  the  track. 

"  Been  thinkin',  parson,  'bout  that  promise,  an'  I'll 
strike  a  bargain  with  you,  sah.  You  say  God  ain't  goin' 
to  let.  him  win  this  heat  an'  race  an'  so  forth,  sah." 

The  Bishop  smiled :  "  I  ain't  give  up,  Col'nel  —  not 
yet." 

"  Well,  sah,  if  God  does  let  Travis  win,  I  take  it  from 
yo'  reasoning,  sah,  that  he's  a  sorry  sort  of  a  God  to 
stand  in  with  a  fraud  an'  I'll  have  nothin'  to  do  with 
Him.  I'll  tell  all  about  it." 

"  If  that's  the  way  you  think  —  yes,"  said  the  old 
man,  solemnly  — "  yes  —  tell  it  —  but  God  will  never 
stan'  in  with  fraud." 

"  We'll  see,"  said  the  Colonel.  "  I'll  keep  my  word 
if  —  if  —  you  win  !  " 

Off  they  went  as  before,  the  old  pacer  hugging  the 
mare's  sulky  wheels  like  a  demon.  Even  Travis  had 
time  to  notice  that  the  old  man  had  done  something  to 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  409 

steady  the  pacer,  for  how  like  a  steadied  ship  did  he 
fly  along! 

Driving,  driving,  driving  —  they  flew  —  they  fought 
it  out.  Not  a  muscle  moved  in  the  old  man's  body. 
Like  a  marble  statue  he  sat  and  drove.  Only  his  lips 
kept  moving  as  if  talking  to  his  horse,  so  close  that 
Travis  heard  him :  "  It's  God's  way,  Ben  Butler,  God's 
way  —  faith, —  the  lines  of  faith  — '  He  leadeth  me  — 
He  leadeth  me  ' !  " 

Up  —  up  —  came  the  pacer  fearless  with  f rictionless 
gait,  pacing  like  a  wild  mustang-king  of  the  desert, 
gleaming  in  sweat,  white  covered  with  dust,  rolling  like 
a  cloud  of  fire.  The  old  man  sang  soft  and  low: 

"  He  leadeth  me,  O  blessed  thought, 

O  word  with  heavenly  comfort  fraught, 

Whate'er  I  do,  whate'er  I  be, 

Still  'tis  God's  hand  that  leadeth  me." 

Inch  by  inch  he  came  up.  And  now  the  home  stretch, 
and  the  old  pacer  well  up,  collaring  the  flying  mare  and 
pacing  her  neck  to  neck. 

Travis  smiled  hard  and  cruel  as  he  drew  out  his  whip 
and  circling  it  around  his  head,  uttered  again,  amid 
fierce  crackling,  his  Indian  yell :  "  Hi  —  hi  —  there  — 
ho  —  ha  —  ho  —  hi  —  hi  —  e  —  e  !  " 

But  the  old  pacer  swerved  not  a  line,  and  Travis, 
white  and  frightened  now  with  a  terrible,  bitter  fear 
that  tightened  around  his  heart  and  flashed  in  his  eyes 
like  the  first  swift  crackle  of  lightning  before  the  blow 
of  thunder,  brought  his  whip  down  on  his  own  mare, 


410         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

welting  her  from  withers  to  rump  in  a  last  desperate 
chance. 

Gamely  she  responded  and  forged  ahead  —  the  old 
pacer  was  beaten ! 

They  thundered  along,  Travis  whipping  his  mare  at 
every  stride.  She  stood  it  like  the  standard-bred  she 
was,  and  never  winced,  then  she  forged  ahead  farther, 
and  farther,  and  held  the  old  pacer  anchored  at  her 
wheels,  and  the  wire  not  fifty  feet  away! 

There  was  nothing  left  for  the  old  man  to  do  —  with 
tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks  he  shouted  — "  Ben 
Butler,  Ben  Butler  —  it's  God's  way  —  the  chastening 
rod—  "  and  his  whip  fell  like  a  blade  of  fire  on  the  old 
horse's  flank. 

It  stung  him  to  madness.  The  Bishop  striking  him, 
the  old  man  he  loved,  and  who  never  struck !  He  shook 
his  great  ugly  head  like  a  maddened  bull  and  sprang  sav 
agely  at  the  wire,  where  the  silken  thing  flaunted  in  his 
face  in  a  burst  of  speed  that  left  all  behind.  Nor  could 
the  old  man  stop  him  after  he  shot  past  it,  for  his  flank 
fluttered  like  a  cyclone  of  fire  and  presently  he  wrent  down 
on  his  knees  —  gently,  gently,  then  —  he  rolled  over ! 

His  driver  jumped  to  the  ground.  It  was  all  he  knew 
except  he  heard  Bud  weeping  as  he  knelt  on  the  ground 
where  the  old  horse  lay,  and  saying :  "  Great  hoss  — 
great  hoss!  " 

Then  he  remembered  saying :  "  Now,  Bud,  don't  cry 
—  if  he  does  die,  won't  it  be  glorious,  to  die  in  harness, 
giving  his  life  for  others  —  Cap'n  Tom  —  Shiloh? 
Think  of  it,  Bud,  to  die  at  the  wire,  his  race  won,  his 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE 

work  finished,  the  crown  his!  O  Bud,  who  would  not 
love  to  go  like  Ben  Butler?  " 

But  he  could  not  talk  any  more,  for  he  saw  Jack 
Bracken  spring  forward,  and  then  the  gleam  of  a  whis 
key  flask  gleamed  above  Ben  Butler's  fluttering  nostrils 
and  Jack's  terrible  gruff  voice  said :  "  Wait  till  he's 
dead  fust.  Stand  back,  give  him  air,"  and  his  great 
hat  fluttered  like  a  windmill  as  he  fanned  the  gasping 
nostrils  of  the  struggling  horse. 

The  old  man  turned  with  an  hysterical  sob  in  his 
throat  that  was  half  a  shout  of  joy. 

Travis  stood  by  him  watching  the  struggles  of  the 
old  horse  for  breath. 

"  Well,  I've  killed  him,"  he  said,  laconically. 

There  was  a  grip  like  a  vise  on  his  shoulders.  He 
turned  and  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  old  man  and  saw 
a  tragic  light  there  he  had  never  seen  before. 

"Don't  —  for  God's  sake  don't,  Richard  Travis, 
don't  tempt  me  here,  wait  till  I  pray,  till  this  devil  goes 
out  of  my  heart." 

And  then  in  his  terrible,  steel-gripping  way,  he  pulled 
Richard  Travis,  with  a  sudden  jerk  up  against  his  own 
pulsing  heart,  as  if  the  owner  of  The  Gaffs  had  been  a 
child,  burying  his  great  hardened  fingers  in  the  man's 
arm  and  fairly  hissing  in  a  whisper  these  words :  "  If 
he  dies  —  Richard  Travis  —  remember  he  died  for  you 
f  j.f  .  it  tuck  both  yo'  mares  to  kill  him  —  no  —  no 
—  don't  start  —  don't  turn  pale  .  .  .  you  are  safe 

.  .  .  I  made  Col'nel  Troup  give  me  his  word 
.  .  .  he'd  not  expose  you  ...  if  Ben  Butler 
won  an'  he  saved  his  money.  I  knew  what  it  'ud  mean 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

.  .  .  that  last  heat  .  .  .  that  it  'ud  kill  him 
but  I  drove  it  to  save  you  ...  to  keep 
Troup  from  exposin'  yo'  .  .  .  I've  got  his  word. 
An'  then  I  was  sure  .  .  .  as  I  live,  I  knew  that  God 
will  touch  you  yet  .  .  .  an'  his  touch  will  be  as 
quickening  fire  to  the  dead  honor  that  is  in  you  .  .  . 
Go!  Richard  Travis  ...  Go  ...  don't 
tempt  me  agin. 

He  remembered  later  feeling  very  queer  because  he 
held  so  much  gold  in  a  bag,  and  it  was  his.  Then  he 
became  painfully  acute  to  the  funny  tiling  that  hap 
pened,  so  funny  that  he  had  to  sit  down  and  laugh.  It 
was  on  seeing  Ben  Butler  rising  slowly  to  his  feet  and 
shaking  himself  with  that  long  powerful  shake  he  had 
seen  so  often  after  wallowing.  And  the  funniest  thing! 
—  two  balls  of  cotton  flew  out  of  his  ears,  one  hitting 
Flecker  of  Tennessee  on  the  nose,  the  other  Colonel 
Troup  in  the  eye. 

"  By  Gad,  sah,"  drawled  Colonel  Troup,  "  but  now. 
I  see.  I  thought  he  cudn't  ah  been  made  of  flesh  an' 
blood,  sah,  why  damme  he's  made  of  cotton !  An'  you 
saved  my  money,  old  man,  an'  that  damned  rascal's  name 
by  that  trick  ?  Well,  you  kno'  what  I  said,  sah,  a  gen 
tleman  an'  his  word  —  but  —  but  — "  he  turned  quickly 
on  the  old  man  —  excitedly,  "  ah,  here  —  I'll  give  you 
the  thousand  dollars  I  hedged  now  ...  if  you'll 
give  me  back  my  promise  —  damned  if  I  don't !  Won't 
do  it?  No?  Well,  it's  yo'  privilege.  I  admire  yo' 
charity,  it's  not  of  this  world." 

And  then  he  remembered  seeing  Bud  sitting  in!  the 
old  cart  driving  Ben  Butler  home  and  telling  every- 


BEN  BUTLER'S  LAST  RACE  413 

body  what  they  now  knew:  "Great  hoss  —  G-r-e-a-t 
Jwss!  " 

And  the  old  horse  shuffled  and  crow-hopped  along, 
and  Jack  followed  the  Bishop  carrying  the  gold. 

And  then  such  a  funny  thing:  Ben  Butler,  fright 
ened  at  a  mule  braying  in  his  ear,  ran  away  and  threw 
Bud  out! 

When  the  old  man  heard  it  he  sat  down  and  laughed 
and  cried  —  to  his  own  disgust  — "  like  a  fool,  sissy 
man,"  he  said,  "  a  sissy  man  that  ain't  got  no  nerve. 
But,  Lord,  who'd  done  that  but  Ben  Butler?  " 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


IT  was  after  dark  when  the  old  man,  pale,  and  his  knees 
still  shaking  with  the  terrible  strain  and  excite 
ment  of  it  all,  reached  his  cabin  on  the  mountain. 
The  cheers  of  the  grand-stand  still  echoed  in  his  ears, 
and,  shut  his  eyes  as  he  would,  he  still  saw  Ben  Butler, 
stretched  out  on  the  track  struggling  for  the  little 
breath  that  was  in  him. 

Jack  Bracken  walked  in  behind  the  old  man  carrying 
a  silken  sack  which  sagged  and  looked  heavy. 

The  grand-father  caught  up  Shiloh  first  and  kissed 
her.  Then  he  sat  down  with  the  frail  form  in  his  arms 
and  looked  earnestly  at  her  with  his  deep  piercing  eyes. 

"  Where's  the  ole  hoss,"  began  his  wife,  her  eyes  be 
ginning  to  snap.  "  You've  traded  him  off  an'  I'll  bet 
3^ou  got  soaked,  Hilliard  Watts  —  I  can  tell  it  by  that 
pesky,  sheepish  look  in  yo'  eyes.  You  never  cu'd  trade 
horses  an'  I've  allers  warned  you  not  to  trade  the  ole 
roan." 

"  Wai,  yes,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  I've  traded  him  for 
this  — "  and  his  voice  grew  husky  with  emotion  — "  for 
this,  Tabitha,  an',  Jack,  jes'  pour  it  out  on  the  table 
there." 

It  came  out,  yellow  waves  of  gold.  The  light  shone 
on  them,  and  as  the  tired  eyes  of  little  Shiloh  peeped 

414 


YOU'LL  COME  BACK  A  MAN  415 

curiously  at  them,  each  one  seemed  to  throw  to  her  a 
kiss  of  hope,  golden  tipped  and  resplendent. 

The  old  woman  stood  dazed,  and  gazing  sillily.  Then 
she  took  up  one  of  the  coins  and  bit  it  gingerly. 

"In  God's  name,  Hilliard  Watts,  what  does  all  this 
mean?  Why,  it's  genuwine  gold." 

"  It  means,"  said  the  old  man  cheerily,  "  that  Shiloh 
an'  the  chillun  will  never  go  into  that  mill  ag'in  —  that 
old  Ben  Butler  has  give  'em  back  their  childhood  an' 
a  chance  to  live.  It  means,"  he  said  triumphantly, 
"  that  Cap'n  Tom's  gwinter  have  the  chance  he's  been 
entitled  to  all  these  years  —  an'  that  means  that  God'll 
begin  to  unravel  the  tangle  that  man  in  his  meanness  has 
wound  up.  It  means,  Tabitha,  that  you'll  not  have  to 
wuck  anymo'  yo'self  —  no  mo',  as  long  as  you  live  — " 

The  old  woman  clutched  at  the  bed-post:     "Me? 

not  wuck  anymo'  ?     Not  hunt  'sang  an'  spatterdock  an' 
clean  up  an'  wash  an'  scour  an'  cook  an' — " 

"  No,  why  not,  Tabitha?     We've  got  a  plenty  to  — " 

He  saw  her  clutch  again  at  the  bed-post  and  go  down 
in  a  heap,  saying: — 

"  L?mme  die  —  now,  if  I  can't  wuck  no  mo'." 

They  lifted  her  on  the  bed  and  bathed  her  face.  It 
was  ten  minutes  before  she  came  around  and  said  feebly : 

"  I'm  dyin',  Hilliard,  it's  kilt  me  to  think  I'll  not 
have  to  wuck  any  mo'." 

"  Oh,  no,  Tabitha,  I  wouldn't  die  fur  that,"  he  said 
soothingly.  "It's  terrible  suddent  like,  I  kno%  an' 
hard  fur  you  to  stan',  but  try  to  bear  it,  honey,  fur  our 
sakes.  It's  hard  to  be  stricken  suddent  like  with  riches, 
an'  I've  never  seed  a  patient  get  over  it,  it  is  true. 


416        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

You'll  be  wantin'  to  change  our  cabin  into  an  ole  Col 
onial  home,  honey,  an'  have  a  carriage  an'  a  pair  of 
reached  mules,  an'  a  wantin'  me  to  start  a  cotton  factory 
an'  jine  a  whis'-club,  whilst  you  entertain  the  Cotton- 
town  Pettico't  Club  with  high-noon  teas,  an'  cut  up  a 
lot  o'  didoes  that'll  make  the  res'  of  the  town  laugh. 
But  you  mus'  fight  ag'in  it,  Tabitha,  honey.  We'll 
jes'  try  to  live  as  we've  allers  lived  an'  not  spend  our 
money  so  as  to  have  people  talk  about  how  we're  throwin' 
it  at  the  ducks.  You  can  get  up  befo'  day  as  usual  an' 
hunt  'sang  on  the  mountain  side,  and  do  all  the  other 
things  you've  1'arnt  to  do  befo'  breakfast." 

This  was  most  reassuring,  and  the  old  woman  felt 
much  better.  But  the  next  morning  she  complained 
bitterly : 

"  I  tested  ever'  one  o'  them  yaller  coins  las'  night, 
they  mout  a  put  a  counterfeit  in  the  lot,  an'  see  heah, 
Hilliard  — "  she  grinned  showing  her  teeth  — "  I  wore 
my  teeth  to  the  quick  a  testin'  'em !  " 

The  next  week,  as  the  train  took  the  Bishop  away,  he 
stood  on  the  rear  platform  to  cry  good-bye  to  Shiloh 
and  Jack  Bracken  who  were  down  to  see  him  off.  By 
his  side  was  a  stooped  figure  and  as  the  old  man  jingled 
some  gold  in  his  pocket  he  said,  patting  the  figure  on  the 
back: 

"  You'll  come  back  a  man,  Cap'n  Tom  —  thank  God ! 
a  man  ag'in !  " 


PART  FIFTH.— THE  LOOM 


27 


CHAPTER  I 

A   NEW   MILL    GIRL 

THE  autumn  had  deepened  —  the  cotton  had  been 
picked.     The  dry  stalks,  sentinelling  the  seared 
ground,   waved   their   tattered   remnants   of  un 
picked  bolls  to  and  fro  —  summer's  battle  flags  which 
had  not  jet  fallen. 

Millwood  was  astir  early  that  morning  —  what  there 
was  of  it.  One  by  one  the  lean  hounds  had  arisen  from 
their  beds  of  dry  leaves  under  the  beeches,  and,  shaking 
themselves  with  that  hound-shake  which  began  at  their 
noses  and  ended  in  a  circular  twist  of  their  skeleton  tails, 
had  begun  to  hunt  for  stray  eggs  and  garbage.  Yet 
their  master  was  already  up  and  astir. 

He  came  out  and  took  a  long  drink  from  the  jug  be 
hind  the  door.  He  drank  from  the  jug's  mouth,  and 
the  gurgling  echo  sounded  down  the  empty  hall :  Gug 
gle  —  guggle  —  gone!  Guggle  —  guggle  —  gone!  It 
said  to  Edward  Conway  as  plainly  as  if  it  had  a  voice. 

"  Yes,  you've  gone  —  that's  the  last  of  you.  Every 
thing  is  gone,"  he  said. 

He  sat  down  on  his  favorite  chair,  propped  his  feet 
upon  the  rotten  balcony's  rim  and  began  to  smoke. 

Within,  he  heard  Lily  sobbing.  Helen  was  trying  to 
comfort  her. 

Conway  glanced  into  the  room.     The  oldest  sister  was 
419 


420        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

dressed  in  a  plain  blue  cotton  gown  —  for  to-day  she 
would  begin  work  at  the  mill.  Conway  remembered  it. 
He  winced,  but  smoked  on  and  said  nothing. 

"  'Tain't  no  use  —  'tain't  no  use,"  sobbed  the  little 
one  — "  My  mammy's  gone  —  gone !  " 

Such  indeed  was  the  fact.  Mammy  Maria  had  gone. 
All  that  any  of  them  knew  was  that  only  an  hour  before 
another  black  mammy  had  come  to  serve  them,  and  all 
she  would  say  was  that  she  had  come  to  take  Mammy 
Maria's  place  —  gone,  and  she  knew  not  where. 

Conway  winced  again  and  then  swore  under  his  breath. 
At  first  he  had  not  believed  it,  none  of  them  had.     But 
as  the  morning  went  on  and  Mammy  Maria  failed  to 
appear,  he  accepted  it,  saying :     "  Jus'  like  a  niggah  — 
who  ever  heard  of  any  of  them  havin'  any  gratitude !  " 

Helen  was  too  deeply  numbed  by  the  thought  of  the 
mill  to  appreciate  fully  her  new  sorrow.  All  she  knew 

—  all  she  seemed  to  feel  —  was,  that  go  to  the  mill  she 
must  —  go  —  go  —  and  Lily  might  cry  and  the  world 
might  go  utterly  to  ruin  —  as  her  own  life  was  going : 

"  I  want  my  mammy  —  I  want  my  mammy,"  sobbed 
the  little  one. 

Then  the  mother  instinct  of  Helen  —  that  latent 
motherhood  which  is  in  every  one  of  her  sex,  however 
young  —  however  old  —  asserted  itself  for  the  first  time. 

She  soothed  the  younger  child :  "  Never  mind,  Lily, 
I  am  going  to  the  mill  only  to  learn  my  lesson  this  week 

—  next  week  you  shall  go  with   me.     We  will  not  be 
separated  after  that." 

"  I  want  my  mammy  —  oh,  I  want  my  mammy,"  was 
all  Lily  could  say. 


A  NEW  MILL  GIRL 

Breakfast  was  soon  over  and  then  the  hour  came  — 
the  hour  when  Helen  Conway  would  begin  her  new  life. 
This  thought  —  and  this  only  —  burned  into  her  soul : 
To-day  her  disgrace  began.  She  was  no  longer  a  Con- 
way.  The  very  barriers  of  her  birth,  that  which  had 
been  thrown  around  her  to  distinguish  her  from  the 
common  people,  had  been  broken  down.  The  founda 
tion  of  her  faith  was  shattered  with  it. 

For  the  last  time,  as  a  Conway,  she  looked  at  the  fields 
of  Millwood  —  at  the  grim  peak  of  Sunset  Rock  above  — 
the  shadowed  wood  below.  Until  then  she  did  not  know 
it  made  such  a  difference  in  the  way  she  looked  at  things. 
But  now  she  saw  it  and  with  it  the  ruin,  the  abandon 
ment  of  every  hope,  every  ambition  of  her  life.  As  she 
stood  upon  the  old  porch  before  starting  for  the  mill, 
she  felt  that  she  was  without  a  creed  and  without  a  prin 
ciple. 

"  I  would  do  anything,"  she  cried  bitterly  — "  I  care 
for  nothing.  If  I  am  tempted  I  shall  steal,  I  know  I 
shall  —  I  know  I  shall  " —  she  repeated. 

It  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  change  environments  for 
the  worse.  It  is  more  dangerous  still  to  break  down 
the  moral  barrier,  however  frail  it  may  be,  which  our 
conscience  has  built  between  the  good  and  the  evil  in  us. 
Some,  reared  under  laws  that  are  loose,  may  withstand 
this  barrier  breaking  and  be  no  worse  for  the  change; 
but  in  the  case  of  those  with  whom  this  barrier  of  their 
moral  belief  stands  securely  between  conscience  and  for 
bidden  paths,  let  it  fall,  and  all  the  best  of  them  will 
fall  with  it. 

For  with  them  there  are  no  degrees  in  degradation  — 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

no  caste  in  the  world  of  sin.  Headlong  they  rush  to 
moral  ruin.  And  there  are  those  like  Helen  Conway, 
too  blinded  by  the  environment  of  birth  to  know  that 
work  is  not  degradation.  To  them  it  is  the  lowering 
of  every  standard  of  their  lives,  standards  which  idle 
ness  has  erected.  And  idleness  builds  strange  standards. 

If  it  had  occurred  to  Helen  Conway  —  if  she  had  been 
reared  to  know  that  to  work  honestly  for  an  honest  liv 
ing  was  the  noblest  thing  in  life,  how  different  would 
it  all  have  been ! 

And  so  at  last  what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong  de 
pend  more  upon  what  has  gone  before  than  what  fol 
lows  after.  It  is  more  a  question  of  pedigree  and  en 
vironment  than  of  trials  and  temptations. 

"  I  shall  steal,"  she  repeated  —  "  oh,  I  know  I  shall." 

And  yet,  as  her  father  drove  her  in  the  old  shambling 
buggy  across  the  hill  road  to  the  town,  there  stood  out  in 
her  mind  one  other  picture  which  lingered  there  all  day 
and  for  many  days.  She  could  not  forget  it  nor  cast  it 
from  her,  and  in  spite  of  all  her  sorrow  it  uplifted  her 
as  she  had  been  uplifted  at  times  before  when,  reading 
the  country  newspaper,  there  had  blossomed  among  its 
dry  pages  the  perfume  of  a  stray  poem,  whose  incense 
entered  into  her  soul  of  souls. 

It  was  a  young  man  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  his  face 
flushed  with  work,  his  throat  bare,  plowing  on  the  slope 
of  the  hillside  for  the  fall  sowing  of  wheat. 

What  a  splendid  picture  he  was,  silhouetted  in  the  ris 
ing  sun  against  the  pink  and  purple  background  of 
sunbeams ! 


A  NEW  MILL  GIRL 

It  was  Clay  Westmore,  and  he  waved  his  hand  in  his 
slow,  calm  forceful  way  as  he  saw  her  go  by. 

It  was  a  little  thing,  but  it  comforted  her.  She  re 
membered  it  long. 

The  mill  had  been  running  several  hours  when  Kings- 
ley  looked  up,  and  saw  standing  before  him  at  his  office 
window  a  girl  of  such  stately  beauty  that  he  stood  look 
ing  sillily  a^t  her,  and  wondering. 

He  did  not  remember  very  clearly  afterwards  any 
thing  except  this  first  impression ;  that  her  hair  was 
plaited  in  two  rich  coils  upon  her  head,  and  that  never 
before  had  he  seen  so  much  beauty  in  a  gingham  dress. 

He  remembered,  too,  that  her  eyes,  which  held  him 
spellbound,  wore  more  an  expression  of  despair  and 
even  desperation  than  of  youthful  hope.  He  could  not 
understand  why  they  looked  that  way,  forerunners  as 
they  were  of  such  a  face  and  hair. 

And  so  he  stood,  sillily  smiling,  until  Richard  Travis 
arose  from  his  desk  and  came  forward  to  meet  her. 

She  nodded  at  him  and  tried  to  smile,  but  Kingsley 
noticed  that  it  died  away  into  drawn,  hard  lines  around 
her  pretty  mouth. 

"  It  is  Miss  Conway,"  he  said  to  Kingsley,  taking  her 
hand  familiarly  and  holding  it  until  she  withdrew  it  with 
a  conscious  touch  of  embarrassment. 

"  She  is  one  of  my  neighbors,  and,  by  the  way,  Kings- 
ley,  she  must  have  the  best  place  in  the  mill." 

Kingsley  continued  to  look  sillily  at  her.  He  had 
not  heard  of  Helen  —  he  did  not  understand. 

"  A  place  in  the  mill  —  ah,  let  me  see,"  he  said 
thoughtfully. 


424        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  I've  been  thinking  it  out,"  went  on  Travis,  "  and 
there  is  a  drawing-in  machine  ready  for  her.  I  under 
stand  Maggie  is  going  to  quit  on  account  of  her  health." 

"I,  ah  —  '  began  Kingsley  —  "  Er  —  well,  I  never 
heard  of  a  beginner  starting  on  a  drawing-in  machine." 

"  I  have  instructed  Maggie  to  teach  her,"  said  Travis 
shortly.  Then  he  beckoned  to  Helen :  "  Come." 

She  followed  Richard  Travis  through  the  mill.  He 
watched  her  as  she  stepped  in  among  the  common  herd 
of  people  —  the  wav  at  first  in  which  she  threw  up  her 
head  in  splendid  scorn.  Never  had  he  seen  her  so  beau 
tiful.  Never  had  he  desired  to  own  her  so  much  as 
then. 

"  The  exquisite,  grand  thing,"  he  muttered.  "  And 
I  shall  —  she  shall  be  mine." 

Then  her  head  sank  again  with  a  little  crushed  smile 
of  helpless  pity  and  resignation.  It  touched  even 
Travis,  and  he  said,  consolingly,  to  her : 

"  You  are  too  beautiful  to  have  to  do  this  and  you 
shall  not  —  for  long.  You  were  born  to  be  queen  of 
-well,  The  Gaffs,  eh?" 

He  laughed  and  then  he  touched  boldly  her  hair  which 
lay  splendidly  around  her  temples. 

She  looked  at  him  resignedly,  then  she  flushed  to  her 
eyes  and  followed  him. 

The  drawer-in  is  to  the  loom  what  the  architect  is  to 
the  building.  And  more  —  it  is  both  architect  and 
foundation,  for  as  the  threads  are  drawn  in  so  must  the 
cloth  be. 

The  work  is  tedious  and  requires  skill,  patience,  quick 
ness,  and  that  nicety  of  judgment  which  comes  with  in- 


A  NEW  MILL  GIRL  425 

tellect  of  a  higher  order  than  is  commonly  found  in 
the  mill.  For  that  reason  the  drawer-in  is  removed 
from  the  noise  of  the  main  room  —  she  sits  with  an 
other  drawer-in  in  a  quiet  little  room  nearby,  and,  with 
her  trained  fingers,  she  draws  in  through  the  eyelets  the 
threads,  which  set  the  warp. 

Maggie  was  busy,  but  she  greeted  him  with  a  quaint, 
friendly  little  smile.  Helen  noticed  two  things  about 
her  at  once:  that  there  was  a  queer  bright  light  in  her 
eyes,  and  that  beneath  them  glowed  two  bright  red  spots, 
which,  when  Travis  approached,  deepened  quickly. 

"  Yes,  I  am  going  to  leave  the  mill,"  she  said,  after 
Travis  had  left  them  together.  "  I  jus'  can't  stan'  it 
any  longer.  Mother  is  dead,  you  know,  an'  father  is  an 
invalid.  I've  five  little  brothers  and  sisters  at  home. 
I  couldn't  bear  to  see  them  die  in  here.  It's  awful  on 
children,  you  know.  So  I've  managed  to  keep  'em 
a-goin'  until  —  well  —  I've  saved  enough  an'  with  the 
help  of  —  a  —  a  —  friend  —  you  see  —  a  very  near 
friend  —  I've  managed  to  get  us  a  little  farm.  We're 
all  goin'  to  it  next  week.  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  I'll  be 
glad  to  teach  you." 

She  glanced  at  Helen's  hands  and  smiled :  "  Yo' 
hands  don't  look  like  they're  used  to  work.  They're  so 
white  and  beautiful." 

Helen  was  pleased.  Her  fingers  were  tapering  and 
beautiful,  and  she  knew  her  hands  were  the  hands  of 
many  generations  of  ladies. 

"  I  have  to  make  a  living  for  myself  now,"  she  said 
with  a  dash  of  bitterness. 

"  If  I  looked  like  you,"  said  Maggie,  slyly  and  yet 


426        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

frankly,  "  I'd  do  something  in  keeping  with  my  place. 
I  can't  bear  to  think  of  anybody  like  you  bein'  here." 

Helen  was  silent  and  Maggie  saw  that  the  tears  were 
ready  to  start.  She  saw  her  half  sob  and  she  patted 
her  cheek  in  a  motherly  way  as  she  said: 

"  Oh,  but  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you  so.  Only  I  do 
hate  so  to  see  —  oh,  I  am  silly,  I  suppose,  because  I  am 
going  to  get  out  of  this  terrible,  terrible  grind." 

Her  pale  face  flushed  and  she  coughed,  as  she  bent 
over  her  work  to  show  Helen  how  to  draw  in  the  threads. 

"  Now,  I'm  a  good  drawer-in,  an'  he  said  onct  " 
she  nodded  at  the  door  from  which  Travis  had  gone  out 
— "  that  I  was  the  best  in  the  worl' ;  the  whole  worl'." 
She  blushed  slightly.  "  But,  well  —  I've  made  no  for 
tune  yet  —  an'  somehow,  in  yo'  case  now  —  you  see  — 
somehow  I  feel  sorter  'f raid  —  about  you  —  like  some- 
thin'  awful  was  goin'  to  happen  to  you." 

"  Why  —  what  —    '  began  Helen,  surprised. 

"  Oh,  it  ain't  nothin',"  she  said  trying  to  be  cheerful 
— "  I'll  soon  get  over  this  .  .  .  out  in  the  air.  I'm 
weak  now  and  I  think  it  makes  me  nervous  an'  skeery. 

.  .  I'll  throw  it  off  that  quick,"  she  snapped  her 
fingers  — "  out  in  the  open  air  again  —  out  on  the  little 
farm."  She  was  silent,  as  if  trying  to  turn  the  subject, 
but  she  went  back  to  it  again.  "  You  don't  know  how 
I've  longed  for  this  —  to  get  away  from  the  mill.  It's 
day  in  an'  day  out  here  an'  shut  up  like  a  convict.  It 
ain't  natural  —  it  can't  be  —  it  ain't  nature.  If  any 
body  thinks  it  is,  let  'em  look  at  them  little  things  over 
on  the  other  side,"  and  she  nodded  toward  the  main  room. 
4*  Why,  them  little  tots  work  twelve  hours  a  day  an' 


A  NEW  MILL  GIRL  427 

sometimes  mo'.  Who  ever  heard  of  children  workin'  at 
all  befo'  these  things  come  into  the  country?  Now,  I've 
no  objection  to  'em,  only  that  they  ought  to  work  grown 
folks  an'  not  children.  They  may  kill  me  if  they  can," 
she  laughed, — "  I  am  grown,  an'  can  stan'  it,  but  I 
can't  bear  to  think  of  'em  killin'  my  little  brothers  an' 
sisters  —  they're  entitled  to  live  until  they  get  grown 
anyway." 

She  stopped  to  cough  and  to  show  Helen  how  to  un 
tangle  some  threads. 

"  Oh,  but  they  can't  hurt  me,"  she  laughed,  as  if 
ashamed  of  her  cough ;  "  this  is  bothersome,  but  it  won't 
last  long  after  I  get  out  on  the  little  farm." 

She  stopped  talking  and  fell  to  her  work,  and  for  two 
hours  she  showed  Helen  just  how  to  draw  the  threads 
through,  to  shift  the  machine,  to  untangle  the  tangled 
threads. 

It  was  nearly  time  to  go  home  when  Travis  came  to 
see  how  Helen  was  progressing.  He  came  up  behind  the 
two  girls  and  stood  looking  at  them  work.  When  they 
looked  up  Maggie  started  and  reddened  and  Helen  saw 
her  tighten  her  thin  lips  in  a  peculiar  way  while  the 
blood  flew  from  them,  leaving  a  thin  white  oval  ring  in 
the  red  that  flushed  her  face. 

"  You  are  doing  finely,"  he  said  to  Helen  — "  you 
will  make  a  swift  drawer-in."  He  stooped  over  and 
whispered :  "  Such  fingers  and  hands  would  draw  in 
anything  —  even  hearts." 

Helen  blushed  and  looked  quickly  at  Maggie,  over 
whose  face  the  pinched  look  had  come  again,  but  Maggie 
was  busy  at  her  machine. 


428        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  I  remember  when  I  came  here  five  years  ago,"  went 
on  Maggie  after  Travis  had  left,  "  I  was  so  proud  an' 
happy.  I  was  healthy  an'  well  an'  so  happy  to  think 
I  cu'd  make  a  livin'  for  the  home-folks  —  for  daddy 
an'  the  little  ones.  Oh,  they  would  put  them  in  the 
mill,  but  I  said  no,  I'll  work  my  fingers  off  first.  Let 
'em  play  an'  grow.  Yes,  they've  lived  on  what  I  have 
made  for  five  years  —  daddy  down  on  his  back,  too, 
an'  the  children  jus'  growin',  an'  now  they  are  big 
enough  and  strong  enough  to  he'p  me  run  the  little 
farm  —  instead  "  —  she  said  after  a  pause  — "  instead 
of  bein'  dead  an'  buried,  killed  in  the  mill.  That  was 
five  years  ago  —  five  years  "  —  she  coughed  and  looked 
out  of  the  window  reflectively. 

"  Daddy  —  poor  daddy  —  he  couldn't  help  the  tree 
fallin'  on  his  back  an'  cripplin'  him ;  an'  little  Buddy, 
well,  he  was  born  weakly,  so  I  done  it  all.  Oh,  I  am  not 
braggin'  an'  I  ain't  complainin',  I'm  so  proud  to  do  it." 

Helen  was  silent,  her  own  bitterness  softened  by  the 
story  Maggie  was  telling,  and  for  a  while  she  forgot  her 
self  and  her  sorrow. 

It  is  so  always.  When  we  would  weep  we  have  only 
to  look  around  and  see  others  who  would  wail. 

"  When  I  come  I  was  as  rosy  as  you,"  Maggie  went 
on ;  "  not  so  pretty  now,  mind  you  —  nobody  could  be 
as  pretty  as  you." 

She  said  it  simply,  but  it  touched  Helen. 

"  But  I'll  get  my  color  back  on  the  little  farm  —  I'll 
be  well  again."  She  was  silent  a  while.  "  I  kno'  you 
are  wonderin'  how  I  saved  and  got  it."  Helen  saw  her 
face  sparkle  and  the  spots  deepen.  "  Mr.  Travis  has 


A  NEW  MILL  GIRL  429 

been  so  kind  to  me  in  —  in  other  ways  —  but  that's  a 
big  secret,"  she  laughed,  "  I'm  to  tell  you  some  day,  or 
rather  you'll  see  yo'self ,  an'  then,  oh  —  every  thing  will 
be  all  right  an'  I'll  be  ever  so  much  happier  than  I  am 
now." 

She  jumped  up  impulsively  and  stood  before  Helen. 

"  Mightn't  I  kiss  you  once, —  you're  so  pretty  an' 
fresh  ?  "  And  she  kissed  the  pretty  girl  half  timidly  on 
the  cheek. 

"  It  makes  me  so  happy  to  think  of  it,"  she  went  on 
excitedly,  "  to  think  of  owning  a  little  farm  all  by  our 
selves,  to  go  out  into  the  air  every  day  whenever  you 
feel  like  it  and  not  have  to  work  in  the  mill,  nor  ask 
anybody  if  you  may,  but  jus'  go  out  an'  see  things 
grow  —  an'  hear  the  birds  sing  and  set  under  the  pretty 
green  trees  an'  gather  wild  flowers  if  you  want  to.  To 
keep  house  an'  to  clean  up  an'  cook  instead  of  forever 
drawin'-in,  an'  to  have  a  real  flower  garden  of  yo'  own 
—  yo'  very  own." 

They  worked  for  hours,  Maggie  talking  as  a  child 
who  had  found  at  last  a  sympathetic  listener.  Twi 
light  came  and  then  a  clang  of  bells  and  the  shaft  above 
them  began  to  turn  slower  and  slower.  Helen  looked 
up  wondering  why  it  had  all  stopped  so  suddenly.  She 
met  the  eyes  of  Travis  looking  at  her. 

"  I  am  to  take  you  home,"  he  said  to  her,  "  the 
trotters  are  at  the  door.  Oh,"  as  he  looked  at  her  work 

"  why,  you  have  done  first  rate  for  the  day." 

"  It's  Maggie's,"  she  whispered. 

He  had  not  seen  Maggie  and  he  stood  looking  at  Helen 


430        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOW^ 

with  such  passionate,  patronizing,  commanding,  master 
ful  eyes,  that  she  shrank  for  a  moment,  sideways. 

Then  he  laughed :  "  How  beautiful  you  are !  There 
are  queens  born  and  queens  made  —  I  shall  call  you  the 
queen  of  the  mill,  eh?  " 

He  reached  out  and  tried  to  take  her  hand,  but  she 
shrank  behind  the  machine  and  then  — 

"  Oh,  Maggie !  "  she  exclaimed  —  for  the  girl's  face 
was  now  white  and  she  stood  with  a  strained  mouth  as  if 
ready  to  sob. 

"  Oh,  Maggie's  a  good  little  girl,"  said  Travis,  catch 
ing  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  please  don't  —  please  "  —  said  Maggie. 

Then  she  walked  out,  drawing  her  thin  shawl  around 
her. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN    THE    DEPTHS 

ALL  the  week  the  two  girls  worked  together  at  the 
mill ;  a  week  which  was  to  Helen  one  long  night 
mare,  filled,  as  it  was,  with  the  hum  and  roar  of 
machinery,  the  hot  breath  of  the  mill,  and  worst  of  all, 
the  seared  and  deadening  thought  that  she  was  dis 
graced. 

In  the  morning  she  entered  the  mill  hoping  it  might 
fall  on  and  destroy  her.  At  night  she  went  home  to 
a  drunken  father  and  a  little  sister  who  needed,  in  her 
childish  sorrow,  all  the  pity  and  care  of  the  elder  one. 

And  one  night  her  father,  being  more  brutal  than 
ever,  had  called  out  as  Helen  came  in :  "  Come  in,  my 
mill-girl ! " 

Richard  Travis  alwa}^  drove  her  home,  and  each  night 
he  became  more  familiar  and  more  masterful.  She  felt, 
—  she  knew  —  that  she  was  falling  under  his  fascinat 
ing  influence. 

And  worse  than  all,  she  knew  she  did  not  care. 

There  is  a  depth  deeper  even  than  the  sin  —  the  depth] 
where  the  doer  ceases  to  care. 

Indeed,  she  was  beginning  to  make  herself  believe  that 
she  loved  him  —  as  he  said  he  wished  her  to  do  • —  and 
as  he  loved  her,  he  said ;  and  with  what  he  said  and  whafj 

431 


432         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

he  hinted  she  dreamed  beautiful,  desperate  dreams  of  the 
future. 

She  did  not  wonder,  then,  that  on  one  drive  she  had 
permitted  him  to  hold  her  hand  in  his.  What  a  strong 
hand  it  was,  and  how  could  so  weak  a  hand  as  her's  re 
sist  it?  And  all  the  time  he  had  talked  so  beautifully 
and  had  quoted  Browning  and  Keats.  And  finally  he 
had  told  her  that  she  had  only  to  say  the  word,  and  leave 
the  mill  with  him  forever. 

But  where,  she  did  not  even  care  —  only  to  get 
away  from  the  mill,  from  her  disgrace,  from  her  drunken 
father,  from  her  wretched  life. 

And  another  night,  when  he  had  helped  her  out  of 
the  buggy,  and  while  she  was  close  to  him  and  looking 
downward,  he  had  bent  over  her  and  kissed  her  on  the 
neck,  where  her  hair  had  been  gathered  up  and  had 
left  it  white  and  fair  and  unprotected.  And  it  sent  a 
hot  flame  of  shame  to  the  depths  of  her  brain,  but  she 
could  only  look  up  and  say  — "  Oh,  please  don't  — 
please  don't,  Mr.  Travis,"  and  then  dart  quickly  into  the 
old  gate  and  run  to  her  home. 

But  within  it  was  only  to  meet  the  taunts  and  sneers 
of  her  father  that  brought  again  the  hot  Conway  blood 
in  defying  anger  to  her  face,  and  then  she  had  turned 
and  rushed  back  to  the  gate  which  Travis  had  just  left, 
crying : 

"  Take  me  now  —  anywhere  —  anywhere.  Carry  me 
away  from  here." 

But  she  heard  only  the  sound  of  his  trotters'  feet  up 
the  road,  and  overcome  with  the  reflective  anguish  of  it 


IN  THE  DEPTHS  433 

all,  she  had  tottered  and  dropped  beneath  the  tree  upon 
the  grass  —  dropped  to  weep. 

After  a  while  she  sat  up,  and  going  down  the  long 
path  to  the  old  spring,  she  bathed  her  face  and  hands 
in  its  cool  depths.  Then  she  sat  upon  a  rock  which 
jutted  out  into  the  water.  It  calmed  her  to  sit  there  and 
feel  the  rush  of  the  air  from  below,  upon  her  hot  cheeks 
and  her  swollen  eyes. 

The  moon  shone  brightly,  lighting  up  the  water,  the 
rocks  which  held  the  spring  pool  within  their  fortress  of 
gray,  and  the  long  green  path  of  water-cresses,  stretch 
ing  away  and  showing  where  the  spring  branch  ran  to 
the  pasture. 

Glancing  down,  she  saw  her  own  image  in  the  water, 
and  she  smiled  to  see  how  beautiful  it  was.  There  was 
her  hair  hanging  splendidly  down  her  back,  and  in  the 
mirror  of  water  beneath  she  saw  it  was  tinged  with  that 
divine  color  which  had  set  the  Roman  world  afire  in  Cleo 
patra's  days.  But  then,  there  was  her  dress  —  her  mill 
dress. 

She  sighed  —  she  looked  up  at  the  stars.  They  al 
ways  filled  her  with  great  waves  of  wonder  and  rever 
ence. 

"Is  mother  in  one  of  you?"  she  asked.  "Oh, 
mother,  why  were  you  taken  from  your  two  little  girls? 
and  if  the  dead  are  immortal,  can  they  forget  us  of 
earth?  Can  they  be  indifferent  to  our  fate?  How 
could  they  be  happy  if  they  knew  — "  She  stopped  and 
looking  up,  picked  out  a  single  star  that  shone  brighter 
than  the  others,  clinging  so  close  to  the  top  of  Sunset 
Rock  as  to  appear  a  setting  to  his  crown. 
28 


434.        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  I  will  imagine  she  is  there  "•  —  she  whispered  — "  in 
that  world  —  O  mother  —  mother  —  will  you  —  cannot 
you  help  me?  " 

She  was  weeping  and  had  to  bathe  her  face  again. 
Then  another  impulse  seized  her  —  an  impulse  of  child 
hood.  Pulling  off  her  stockings,  she  dipped  her  feet  in 
the  cool  water  and  splashed  them  around  in  sheer  de 
light. 

The  moonbeams  falling  on  them  under  the  water 
turned  the  pink  into  white,  and  she  smiled  to  see  how  like 
the  pictures  of  Diana  her  ankles  looked. 

She  had  forgotten  that  the  old  spring  was  near  the 
public  road  and  that  the  rail  fence  was  old  and  fallen. 
Her  revery  was  interrupted  by  a  bantering,  half  drunk 
en,  jolly  laugh: 

"  Well,  I  must  say  I  never  saw  anything  quite  so 
pretty !  " 

She  sprang  up  in  shame.  Leaning  on  the  old  fence, 
she  saw  Harry  Travis,  a  roguish  smile  on  his  face.  She 
thought  she  would  run,  then  she  remembered  her  bare 
feet  and  she  sat  down  on  the  grass,  covering  her  ankles 
with  her  skirt.  At  first  she  wanted  to  cry,  then  she 
grew  indignant  as  he  came  tipsily  toward  her  and  sat 
down  by  her  side. 

She  was  used  to  the  smell  of  whiskey  on  the  breath. 
It's  slightest  odor  she  knew  instantly.  To  her  it  was  the 
smell  of  death. 

"  Got  to  the  Gov'ner's  private  bottle  to-night,"  he 
said  familiarly,  "  and  took  a  couple  of  cocktails.  Going 
over  to  see  Nellie,  but  couldn't  resist  such  beauties  as  " — 
he  pointed  to  her  feet. 


IN  THE  DEPTHS  435 

"  It  was  mean  of  you  to  slip  upon  me  as  you  did,"  she 
said.  Then  she  turned  the  scorn  of  her  eyes  on  him 
and  coolly  looked  him  over,  the  weak  face,  the  boyish, 
half  funny  smile,  the  cynical  eyes, —  trying  to  be  a  man 
of  the  world  and  too  weak  to  know  what  it  all  meant. 

The  Conway  spirit  had  come  to  her  —  it  always  did 
in  a  critical  moment.  She  no  longer  blushed  or  even 
feared  him. 

"  How,  how,"  she  said  slowly  and  looking  him  steadily 
over,  "  did  I  ever  love  such  a  thing  as  you  ?  " 

He  moved  up  closer.  "  You  will  have  to  kiss  me  for 
that,"  he  said  angrily.  "  I've  kissed  you  so  often  I 
know  just  how  to  do  it,"  and  he  made  an  attempt  to 
throw  his  arms  around  her. 

She  sprang  away  from  him  into  the  spring  branch, 
standing  knee  deep  in  the  water  and  among  the  water- 
cresses. 

He  arose  hot  with  insolence :  "  Oh,  you  think  you 
are  too  good  for  me  now  —  now  that  the  Gov'ner  has 
set  his  heart  on  you.  Damn  him  —  you  were  mine  be 
fore  you  were  his.  He  may  have  you,  but  he  will  take 
you  with  Cassius'  kisses  on  your  lips." 

He  sprang  forward,  reached  over  the  rock  and  seized 
her  by  the  arm.  But  she  jerked  away  from  him  and 
sprang  back  into  the  deeper  water  of  the  spring.  She 
did  not  scream,  but  it  seemed  that  her  heart  would  burst 
with  shame  and  anger.  She  thought  of  Ophelia,  and 
as  she  looked  down  into  the  water  she  wiped  away  in 
differently  and  silently  the  cool  drops  which  had  splashed 
up  into  her  face,  and  she  wondered  if  she  might  not  be 


436        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

able  to  drop  down  flat  and  drown  herself  there,  and  thus 
end  it  all. 

He  had  come  to  the  edge  of  the  rock  and  stood  leering 
drunkenly  down  on  her. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  laughed  ironically. 

"  I  hate  you,"  she  said,  looking  up  steadily  into  his 
eyes  and  moving  back  out  of  his  reach. 

The  water  had  wet  her  dress,  and  she  stooped  and 
dipped  some  of  it  up  and  bathed  her  hot  cheeks. 

"  I'll  kiss  you  if  I  have  to  wade  into  that  spring." 

"  If  I  had  a  brother, —  oh,  if  I  even  had  a  father," 
she  said,  looking  at  him  with  a  flash  of  Conway  fire  in 
her  eyes  — "  and  you  did  —  you  would  not  live  till 
morning  —  you  know  you  wouldn't." 

She  stood  now  knee-deep  in  water.  Above  her  the 
half -drunken  boy,  standing  on  the  rock  which  projected 
into  the  spring,  emboldened  with  drink  and  maddened 
by  the  thought  that  she  had  so  easily  given  him  up, 
had  reached  out  and  seized  her  around  the  neck.  He 
was  rough,  and  it  choked  her  as  he  drew  her  to  him. 

She  screamed  for  the  first  time  —  for  she  thought  she 
heard  hoof  beats  coming  down  the  road;  then  she  heard 
a  horseman  clear  the  low  fence  and  spur  into  the  spring 
branch.  The  water  from  the  horse's  feet  splashed  over 
her.  She  remembered  it  only  faintly  —  the  big  glasses 
-  the  old  straw  hat, —  the  leathern  bag  of  samples 
around  his  shoulders. 

"  Most  unusual,"  she  heard  him  say,  with  more  calm 
ness  it  seemed  to  Helen  than  ever :  "  Quite  unusual 
• —  insultingly  so !  " 

Instinctively  she  held  up  her  arms  and  he  stooped  in 


IN  THE  DEPTHS  437 

the  saddle  and  lifted  her  up  and  set  her  on  the  stone 
curbing  on  the  side  farthest  from  Harry  Travis. 

Then  he  turned  and  very  deliberately  reached  over 
and  seized  Harry  Travis,  who  stood  on  the  rock,  nearly 
on  a  line  with  the  pommel  of  the  saddle.  But  the  hand 
that  gripped  the  back  of  Harry's  neck  was  anything 
but  gentle.  It  closed  around  the  neck  at  the  base  of 
the  brain,  burying  its  fingers  in  the  back  muscles  with 
paralyzing  pain  and  jerked  him  face  downward  across 
the  saddle  with  a  motion  so  swift  that  he  was  there  be 
fore  he  knew  it.  Then  another  hand  seized  him  and 
rammed  his  mouth,  as  he  lay  across  the  pommel  of  the 
saddle,  into  the  sweaty  shoulders  below  the  horse's 
withers,  and  he  felt  the  horse  move  out  and  into  the 
road  and  up  to  the  crossing  of  the  ways  just  as  a  buggy 
and  two  fast  bay  mares  came  around  the  corner. 

The  driver  of  the  bays  stopped  as  he  saw  his  cousin 
thrown  like  a  pig  over  the  pommel  and  held  there  kick 
ing  and  cursing. 

"  I  was  looking  for  him,"  said  Richard  Travis  quiet 
ly,  "  but  I  would  like  to  know  what  it  all  means." 

The  big  glasses  shone  in  kindly  humor.  They  did  not 
reflect  any  excitement  in  the  eyes  behind  them. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  means  that  he  is  drunk.  Perhaps  he 
will  tell  you  about  it.  Quite  unusual,  I  must  say  —  he 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  drown  a  young  lad}^  in  a  spring." 

He  eased  his  burden  over  the  saddle  and  dropped  him 
into  the  road. 

Richard  Travis  took  it  in  instantly,  and  as  Clay  rode 
away  he  heard  the  cousin  say :  "  You  damned  yellow 
cur  —  to  bear  the  name  of  Travis." 


CHAPTER  III 

WORK  IN   A  NEW  LIGHT 

IT  was  an  hour  before  Clay  Westmore  rode  back  to 
Millwood.  He  had  been  too  busy  plowing  that 
day  to  get,  sooner,  a  specimen  of  the  rock  he  had 
seen  out-cropping  on  Sand  Mountain.  At  night,  after 
supper,  he  had  ridden  over  for  it. 

And  now  by  moonlight  he  had  found  it ! 

He  flushed  with  the  strength  of  it  all  as  he  put  it  in 
his  satchel  —  the  strength  of  knowing  that  not  even 
poverty,  nor  work,  nor  night  could  keep  him  from  ac 
complishing  his  purpose. 

Then  he  rode  back,  stopping  at  Millwood.  For  he 
thought,  too,  that  he  might  see  Helen,  and  while  he 
had  resolved  not  to  force  himself  on  her  after  what  she 
had  said  when  he  last  saw  her,  still  he  wished  very  much 
to  see  her  now  and  then. 

For  somehow,  it  never  got  out  of  his  deductive  head 
that  some  day  she  would  learn  to  love  him.  Had  he 
known  the  temptation,  the  despair  that  was  hers,  he 
would  not  have  been  so  quietly  deliberate.  But  she  had 
never  told  him.  In  fact,  he  had  loved  her  from  a 
distance  all  his  life  in  his  quiet  way,  though  now,  by 
her  decree,  they  were  scarcely  more  than  the  best  of 
friends.  Some  day,  after  he  had  earned  enough,  he 
would  tell  her  just  how  much  he  loved  her.  At  present 

438 


WORK  IN  A  NEW  LIGHT  439 

he  could  not,  for  was  he  not  too  poor,  and  were  not  his 
mother  and  sister  dependent  upon  him? 

He  knew  that  Harry  Travis  loved  her  in  a  way  —  a 
love  he  was  certain  would  not  last,  and  in  the  fullness 
and  depths  of  his  sincere  nature,  he  felt  as  sure  of  ulti 
mately  winning  her,  by  sheer  force  of  strength,  of  con 
sistency  and  devotion,  as  he  was  that  every  great  thing 
in  life  had  been  done  by  the  same  force  and  would  be  to 
the  end  of  time. 

As  sure  as  fiiat,  by  this  same  force,  he,  himself,  would 
one  day  discover  the  vein  of  coal  which  lay  somewhere 
in  the  beautiful  valley  of  the  Tennessee. 

And  so  he  waited  his  time  with  the  easy  assurance  of 
the  philosopher  which  he  was,  and  with  that  firm  faith 
which  minds  of  his  strength  always  have  in  themselves 
and  their  ultimate  success. 

It  surprised  him,  it  is  true  —  hurt  him  —  when  he 
found  to  what  extent  Harry  Travis  had  succeeded  in 
winning  the  love  of  Helen.  He  was  hurt  because  he  ex 
pected —  hoped  —  she  would  see  further  into  things 
than  she  had.  And  counting  all  the  poverty  and  hard 
ships  of  his  life,  the  Sunday  afternoon  when  he  had  left 
her  in  the  arbor,  after  she  had  told  him  she  was  engaged 
to  Harry  Travis,  he  could  not  remember  when  anything 
had  been  so  hard  for  him  to  bear.  Later  he  had  heard 
how  she  had  gone  to  work  in  the  mill,  and  he  knew  that 
it  meant  an  end  of  her  love  affair  with  Harry. 

To-night  something  told  him  it  was  time  to  see  her 
again,  not  to  tell  her  of  his  own  love,  and  how  it  would 
never  change,  whether  she  was  mill  girl  or  the  mistress 
of  Millwood,  but  to  encourage  her  in  the  misery  of  it  all. 


440        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Work  —  and  did  not  he  himself  love  to  work  ?  Was 
it  not  the  noblest  thing  of  life? 

He  would  tell  her  it  was. 

He  was  surprised  when  he  saw  what  had  just  hap 
pened  ;  but  all  his  life  he  had  controlled  himself  to  such  a 
degree  that  in  critical  moments  he  was  coolest;  and  so 
what  with  another  might  have  been  a  serious  affair,  he 
had  turned  into  half  retributive  fun,  but  the  deadliest 
punishment,  as  it  afterwards  turned  out,  that  he  could 
have  inflicted  on  a  temperament  and  nature  such  as 
Harry  Travis'.  For  that  young  man,  unable  to  stand 
the  gibes  of  the  neighborhood  and  the  sarcasm  of  his 
uncle  when  it  all  became  known,  accepted  a  position  in 
another  town  and  never  came  back  again. 

To  have  been  shot  or  floored  in  true  melodramatic 
style  by  his  rival,  as  he  stood  on  a  rock  with  a  helpless 
girl  in  his  clutch,  would  have  been  more  to  his  liking 
than  to  be  picked  up  bodily,  by  the  nape  of  his  neck, 
and  taken  from  the  scene  of  his  exploits  like  a  pig  across 
a  saddle. 

That  kind  of  a  combat  did  not  meet  his  ideas  of 
chivalry. 

Helen  was  dressed  in  her  prettiest  gown  when  Clay 
rode  back  to  Millwood,  after  securing  the  samples  he 
had  started  for.  She  knew  he  was  coming  and  so  she 
tied  a  white  Scarf  over  her  head  and  went  again  to  her 
favorite  seat  beneath  the  trees. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,  Clay,"  she  said,  as 
he  swung  down  from  his  saddle  and  threw  his  leathern 
bag  on  the  grass. 

"  Now,  you  look  more  like  yourself,"  he  smiled  ad- 


WORK  IN  A  NEW  LIGHT  441 

miringly,   as  he   looked   down   on   her   white   dress   and 
auburn  hair,  drooping  low  over  her  neck  and  shoulders. 

"  Tell  me  about  yourself  and  how  you  like  it  at  the 
mill,"  he  went  on  as  he  sat  down. 

"  Oh,  you  will  not  be  willing  to  speak  to  me  now  — 
now  that  I  am  a  mill-girl,"  she  added.  "  Do  you  know  ? 
Clay  — " 

"  I  know  that,  aside  from  being  beautiful,  you  have 
jusc  begun  to  be  truly  womanly  in  my  sight." 

"  Oh,  Clay,  do  you  really  think  that?  It  is  the  first 
good  word  that  has  been  spoken  to  me  since  —  since  my 
—  disgrace." 

He  turned  quickly :  "  Your  disgrace !  Do  you  call 
it  disgrace  to  work  —  to  make  an  honest  living  —  to  be 
independent  and  self-reliant?" 

He  picked  up  his  bag  of  samples  and  she  saw  that  his 
hands  had  become  hard  and  sunburnt  from  the  plow 
handles. 

"  Helen,"  he  went  on  earnestly,  "  that  is  one  of  the 
hide-bound  tyrannies  that  must  be  bahished  from  our 
Southland  —  banished  as  that  other  tyranny,  slavery, 
has  been  banished  —  a  sin,  which,  with  no  fault  of  our 
own,  we  inherited  from  the  centuries.  We  shall  never 
be  truly  great  —  as  God  intended  we  should  be  great  — 
until  we  learn  to  work.  We  have  the  noblest  and  sun 
niest  of  lands,  with  more  resources  than  man  now  dreams 
of,  a  greater  future  than  we  know  of  if  we  will  only 
work  —  work  and  develop  them.  You  have  set  an  exam 
ple  for  every  girl  in  the  South  who  has  been  thrown 
upon  her  own  resources.  Never  before  in  my  life  have 
I  cared  —  so  —  much  —  for  you." 


448         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

And  he  blushed  as  he  said  it,  and  fumbled  his  sam 
ples. 

"  Then  you  do  care  some  for  me?  "  she  asked  plead 
ingly.  She  was  heart-sick  for  sympathy  and  did  not 
know  just  what  she  said. 

He  flushed  and  started  to  speak.  He  looked  at  her, 
and  his  big  glasses  quivered  with  the  suppressed  emo 
tions  which  lay  behind  them  in  his  eyes. 

But  he  saw  that  she  did  not  love  him,  that  she  was 
begging  for  sympathy  and  not  for  love.  Besides,  what 
right  had  he  to  plan  to  bring  another  to  share  his  pov 
erty? 

He  mounted  his  horse  as  one  afraid  to  trust  himself 
to  stay  longer.  But  he  touched  her  hair  in  his  awk 
ward,  funny  wa}r,  before  he  swung  himself  into  the 
saddle,  and  Helen,  as  she  went  into  the  desolate  home, 
felt  uplifted  as  never  before. 

Never  before  had  she  seen  work  in  that  light  —  nor 
love. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MAGGIE 

IT  was  Maggie's  last  day  at  the  mill,  and  she  had 
been   unusually   thoughtful.      Her   face   was   more 
pinched,   Helen   thought,   and   the   sadness    in   her 
eyes  had  increased. 

Helen  had  proved  to  be  an  apt  pupil,  and  Maggie 
declared  that  thereafter  she  would  be  able  to  run  her 
machine  without  assistance. 

It  was  Saturday  noon  and  Maggie  was  ready  to  go, 
though  the  mill  did  not  shut  down  until  six  that  day. 
And  so  she  found  herself  standing  and  looking  with 
tearful  eyes  at  the  machine  she  had  learned  to  love,  at 
the  little  room  in  which  she  had  worked  so  long,  sup 
porting  her  invalid  father  and  her  little  ones — as 

she  motherly  called  the  children.      It  had  been  hard 

so  hard,  and  the  years  had  been  long  and  she 
was  so  weak  now,  compared  to  what  she  had  been.  How 
happy  she  had  thought  the  moment  of  her  leaving 
would  be;  and  yet  now  that  it  had  come  —  now  —  she 
was  weeping. 

"  I  didn't  think,"  she  said  to  Helen  — "  I  didn't  think 
I'd  —  I'd  care  so  to  leave  it  —  when  —  when  —  the  time 
—  came." 

She  turned  and  brushed  away  her  tears  in  time  to  see 
Travis  come  smiling  up. 

443 


444        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"Why,  Maggie,"  he  said  playfully  flipping  the  tip 
of  her  ear  as  he  passed  her.  "  I  thought  you  left  us 
yesterday  afternoon.  You'll  not  be  forgetting  us  now 
that  you  will  not  see  us  again,  will  you?  " 

She  flushed  and  Helen  heard  her  say :     "  Forget  you 
-ever?     Oh,    please,   Mr.    Travis  — "    and   her   voice 
trembled. 

"  Oh,  tut,"  he  said,  frowning  quickly  — "  nothing 
like  that  here.  Of  course,  you  will  hate  to  leave  the 
old  mill  and  the  old  machine.  Come,  Maggie,  you 
needn't  wait  —  you're  a  good  girl  —  we  all  know  that." 

He  turned  to  Helen  and  watched  her  as  she  drew  in 
the  threads.  Her  head  was  bent  over,  and  her  great 
coil  of  hair  sat  upon  it  like  a  queen  on  a  throne. 

What  a  neck  and  throat  she  had  —  what  a  beautiful 
queenly  manner! 

Travis  smiled  an  amused  smile  when  he  thought  of 
it  —  an  ironical  sneering  smile ;  but  he  felt,  as  he  stood 
there,  that  the  girl  had  fascinated  him  in  a  strange  way, 
and  now  that  she  was  in  his  power,  "  now  that  Fate,  or 
God  has  combined  to  throw  her  into  my  arms  —  almost 
unasked  for  —  is  it  possible  that  I  am  beginning  to  fall 
in  love  with  her?  " 

He  had  forgotten  Maggie  and  stood  looking  at  Helen. 
And  in  that  look  Maggie  saw  it  all.  He  heard  her  sit 
clown  suddenly. 

"  I  would  go  if  I  were  you,  Maggie  —  you  are  a 
good  girl  and  we  shall  not  forget  you." 

"  May  I  stay  a  little  while  longer?  "  she  asked.  "  I 
won't  ever  come  back  any  more,  you  know." 


MAGGIE  445 

Travis  turned  quickly  and  walked  off.  He  came  back 
and  spoke  to  Helen. 

"  Remember,  I  am  to  take  you  home  to-night.  But 
it  will  be  later  than  usual,  on  account  of  the  pay-roll." 

As  he  shut  the  door  Maggie  turned,  and  her  heart 
being  too  full  to  speak,  she  came  forward  and  dropped 
on  her  knees,  burying  her  face  in  Helen's  lap.  "  You 
must  not  notice  me,"  she  said  — "  don't  —  don't  —  oh, 
don't  look  at  me." 

Helen  stroked  her  cheek  and  finally  she  was  quiet. 

Then  she  looked  into  Helen's  face.  "  Do  you  know 
—  oh,  will  you  mind  if  I  speak  to  you  —  or  perhaps  I 
shouldn't  —  but  —  but  —  don't  you  see  that  he  loves 
you?" 

Helen  reddened  to  her  ears. 

"  I  am  foolish  —  sick  —  nervous  —  I  know  I  am  silly 
an'  yet  I  don't  see  how  he  could  help  it  —  you  are  so 
queenly  —  beautiful  —  so  different  from  any  that  are 
here.  He  —  he  —  has  forgotten  me  — " 

Helen  looked  at  her  quickly. 

"  Why,  I  don't  understand,"  she  said. 

"  I  mean,"  she  stammered,  "  he  used  to  notice  us  com 
mon  girls  —  me  and  the  others  — " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Helen,  half  indig 
nantly. 

"  Oh,  don't  pay  no  'tention  to  me,"  she  said.  "  I,  I 
fear  I  am  sick,  you  know  —  sicker  than  I  thought,"  and 
she  coughed  violently. 

She  lay  with  her  head  in  Helen's  lap.  "  Please,"  she 
said  timidly,  looking  up  into  Helen's  face  at  last  — 
"  please  let  me  stay  this  way  a  while.  I  never  knew  a 


446        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

mother  —  nobody  has  ever  let  me  do  this  befo',  an'  I  am 
so  happy  for  it." 

Helen  stroked  her  face  and  hair  anew,  and  Maggie 
kneeled  looking  up  at  her  eagerly,  earnestly,  hungrily, 
scanning  every  feature  of  the  prettier  girl  with  wor 
shipping  eyes. 

"  How  could  he  he'p  it  —  how  could  he  he'p  it,"  she 
said  softly  — "  yes  —  yes —  you  are  his  equal  and  so 
beautiful." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Maggie  —  indeed  I  do 
not." 

Maggie  arose  quickly  :  "  Good-bye  —  let  me  kiss  you 
once  mo' —  I  feel  like  I'll  never  see  you  again  —  an' — 
an' — I've  learned  to  love  you  so!" 

Helen  raised  her  head  and  kissed  her. 

Then  Maggie  passed  quickly  out,  and  with  her  eyes 
only  did  she  look  back  and  utter  a  farewell  which  carried 
with  it  both  a  kiss  and  a  tear.  And  something  else 
which  was  a  warning. 

And  Helen  never  forgot. 


CHAPTER  V 

PAY-DAY 

IT  was  Saturday  afternoon  and  pay-day,  and  the  mill 
shut  down  at  six  o'clock 

When  Helen  went  in  Kingsley  sat  at  the  Super 
intendent's  desk,  issuing  orders  on  the  Secretary  and 
Treasurer,  Richard  Travis,  who  sat  at  his  desk  near  by 
and  paid  the  wages  in  silver. 

Connected  with  the  mill  was  a  large  commissary  or 
store  —  a  cheap  modern  structure  which  stood  in  an 
other  part  of  the  town,  filled  with  the  necessaries  of  life 
as  well  as  the  flimsy  gewgaws  which  delight  the  heart 
of  the  average  mill  hand.  In  establishing  this  store, 
the  directors  followed  the  usual  custom  of  cotton-mills 
in  smaller  towns  of  the  South ;  paying  their  employees 
part  in  money  and  part  in  warrants  on  the  store.  It  is 
needless  to  add  that  the  prices  paid  for  the  goods  were, 
in  most  cases,  high  enough  to  cut  the  wages  to  the 
proper  margin.  If  there  was  any  balance  at  the  end 
of  the  month,  it  was  paid  in  money. 

Kingsley  personally  supervised  this  store,  and  his 
annual  report  to  the  directors  was  one  of  the  strong 
financial  things  of  his  administration. 

A  crowd  of  factory  hands  stood  around  his  desk,  and 
the  Superintendent  was  busy  issuing  orders  on  the  store, 

447 


448        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

or  striking  a  balance  for  the  Secretary  and  Treasurer 
to  pay  in  silver. 

They  stood  around  tired,  wretched,  lint-  and  dust- 
covered,  but  expectant.  Few  were  there  compared  with 
the  number  employed ;  for  the  wages  of  the  minors  went 
to  their  parents,  and  as  minors  included  girls  under 
eighteen  and  boys  under  twenty-one,  their  parents  were 
there  to  receive  their  wages  for  them. 

These  children  belonged  to  them  as  mercilessly  as  if 
they  had  been  slaves,  and  despite  the  ties  of  blood,  no 
master  ever  more  relentlessly  collected  and  appropriated 
the  wages  of  his  slaves  than  did  the  parents  the  pitiful 
wages  of  their  children. 

There  are  two  great  whippers-in  in  the  child  slavery 
of  the  South  —  the  mills  which  employ  the  children  and 
the  parents  who  permit  it  —  encourage  it.  Of  these  two 
the  parents  are  often  the  worse,  for,  since  the  late  enact 
ment  of  child  labor  laws,  they  do  not  hesitate  to  stultify 
themselves  by  false  affidavits  as  to  the  child's  real  age. 

Kingsley  had  often  noticed  how  promptly  and  even 
proudly  the  girls,  after  reaching  eighteen,  and  the  boys 
twenty-one,  had  told  him  hereafter  to  place  their  wages 
to  their  own  credit,  and  not  to  the  parent's.  They 
seemed  to  take  a  new  lease  on  life.  Decrepit,  drawn- 
faced,  hump-shouldered  and  dried  up  before  their  time, 
the  few  who  reached  the  age  when  the  law  made  them 
their  own  masters,  looked  not  like  men  and  women  who 
stand  on  the  threshold  of  life,  but  rather  like  overworked 
middle-aged  beings  of  another  period. 

Yet  that  day  their  faces  put  on  a  brighter  look. 
They    stood    around    the   office    desk,    awaiting   their 


PAY-DAY 

turn.  The  big  engine  had  ceased  to  throb  and  the  shut 
tles  to  clatter  and  whirl.  The  mill  wb  so  quiet  that 
those  who  had,  year  in  and  year  out,  listen-1  to  its  clat 
ter  and  hum,  seemed  to  think  some  overhanging  calam 
ity  was  about  to  drop  out  of  the  sky  of  terrible  calm. 

"  Janetto  Smith,"  called  out  Kingsley. 

She  came  forward,  a  bony,  stoop-shouldered  woman 
of  thirty-five  years  who  had  been  a  spooler  since  she  was 
fifteen. 

"  Seventy-seven  hours  for  the  week  " —  he  went  on 
mechanically,  studying  the  time  book,  "  making  six  dol 
lars  and  sixteen  cents.  Rent  deducted  two  dollars. 
Wood  thirty-five  cents.  Due  commissary  for  goods  fur 
nished  —  here,  Mr.  Kidd,"  he  said  to  the  book-keeper, 
"  let  \ie  see  Miss  Smith's  account."  It  was  shoved  to 
him  across  the  desk.  Kingsley  elevated  his  glasses. 
Then  he  adjusted  them  with  a  peculiar  lilt  —  it  was  bis 
way  of  being  ironical: 

"  Oh,  you  don't  owe  the  store  anything,  Miss  Smith 
—  just  eleven  dollars  and  eighty  cents." 

The  woman  stood  stoically  —  not  a  muscle  moved  in 
foer  face,  and  not  even  by  the  change  of  an  eye  did  she 
mdicate  that  such  a  thing  as  the  ordinary  human  emo 
tions  of  disappointment  and  fear  had  a  home  in  the 
heart. 

"  Mother  was  sick  all  last  month,"  she  said  at  last  in  a 
voice  that  came  out  ir  the  »ame  indifferent,  unvarying 
tone.  "  I  had  to  overdraw." 

Kingsley  gave  his  eye-glasses  another  lilt.  They  said 
as  plainly  as  eye-glasses  could :  "  Well,  of  course,  I 
made  her  sick."  Then  he  added  abruptly:  "We  will 

29 


450        THE   BISHOP   OF   COTTONTOWN 

advance  you   two   dollars   tliis    week — an'  that    will   be 
all." 

"  I  hoped  to  get  some  little  thing  that  she  could  eat — 
some  relish,"  she  began. 

"  Not  our  business,  Miss  Smith — sorry — very  sorry 
— but  try  to  be  more  economical.  Economy  is  the 
great  objective  haven  of  life.  Emerson  says  so.  And 
Browning  in  a  most  beautiful  line  of  poetry  says  the 
same  thing,"  he  added. 

"  The  way  to  begin  economy  is  to  begin  it  —  Emer 
son  is  so  helpful  to  me  —  he  always  comes  in  at  the 
right  time." 

"  And  it's  only  to  be  two  dollars,"  she  added. 

"  That's  all,"  and  he  pushed  her  the  order.  She  took 
it,  cashed  it  and  went  hurriedly  out,  her  poke  bonnet 
pulled  over  her  face.  But  there  were  hot  tears  and  a 
sob  under  her  bonnet. 

And  so  it  went  on  for  two  hours  —  some  drawing 
nothing,  but  remaining  to  beg  for  an  order  on  the  store 
to  keep  them  running  until  next  week. 

One  man  with  six  children  in  the  mill  next  came  for 
ward    and    drew    eighteen    dollars.     He    smiled    com 
placently  as  he  drew  it  and  chucked  the  silver  into  his 
pocket.     This   gave    Jud    Carpenter,   standing   near,    a 
chance  to  get  in  his  mill  talk. 

"  I  tell  you,  Joe  Hopper,"  he  said,  slapping  the  man 
on  the  back,  "  that  mill  is  a  great  thing  for  the  mothers 
an'  fathers  of  this  little  settlement.  What  'ud  we  do  if 
it  warn't  for  our  chillun  ?  " 

"  You're  talkin  now  -  "  said  Joe  hopefully. 

"  It  useter  be,"  said  Jud,  looking  around  at  his  crowd. 


PAY-DAY  461 

"  that  the  parents  spoiled  the  kids,  but  now  it  is  the  kidg 
spoilin'  the  parents." 

His  audience  met  this  with  smiles  and  laughter. 

"I  never  did  know  before,"  went  on  Jud,  "what  that 
old  say  in'  really  meant :  i  A  fool  for  luck  an?  a  poj 
man  for  chill un.'  " 

Another  crackling  laugh. 

"  How  much  did  Joe  Hopper's  chillun  fetch  'im  in 
this  week  ?  " 

Joe  jingled  his  silver  in  his  pocket  and  spat  important 
ly  on  the  floor. 

"  I  tell  you,  when  I  married,"  said  Jud,  "  I  seed  noth- 
in'  but  poverty  an'  the  multiplication  of  my  part  of  the 
earth  ahead  of  me  —  poverty,  I  tell  you,  starvation  an' 
every  new  chik  addin'  to  it.  But  since  you  started  this 
mill,  Mister  Kingsley  (Kingsley  smiled  and  bowed 
across  the  desk  at  him),  I've  turned  what  everybody  said 
'ud  starve  us  into  ready  cash.  And  now  I  say  to  the 
young  folks :  '  Marry  an'  multiply  an'  the  cash  will 
be  forthcomin'.'  ' 

This  was  followed  by  loud  laughs,  especially  from 
those  who  were  blessed  with  children,  and  they  filed  up 
to  get  their  wages. 

Jim  Stallings,  who  had  four  in  the  mill,  was  counted 
out  eleven  dollars.  As  he  pocketed  it  he  looked  at  Jud 
and  said: 

"  Oh,  no,  Jud ;  it  don't  pay  to  raise  chillun.  I  wish  I 
had  the  chance  old  Sollerman  had.  I'd  soon  make  old 
Vanderbilt  look  like  shin  plaster." 

He  joined  in  the  laughter  which  followed. 


452        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

In  the  doorway  he  cut  a  pigeon-wing  in  which  his 
thin,  bowed  legs  looked  comically  humorous. 

Jud  Carpenter  was  a  power  in  the  mill,  standing  as 
he  did  so  near  to  the  management.  To  the  poor,  ig 
norant  ones  around  him  he  was  the  mouth-piece  of  the 
mill,  and  they  feared  him  even  more  than  they  did 
Kingsley  himself,  Kingsley  with  his  ironical  ways  and 
lilting  eye-glasses.  With  them  Jud's  nod  alone  was 
sufficient. 

They  were  still  grouped  around  the  office  awaiting 
their  turn.  In  the  faces  of  some  were  shrewdness,  cun 
ning,  hypocrisy.  Some  looked  out  through  dull  eyes, 
humbled  and  brow-beaten  and  unfeeling.  But  all  of 
them  when  they  spoke  to  Jud  Carpenter  —  Jud  Carpen 
ter  who  stood  in  with  the  managers  of  the  mill  —  be 
came  at  once  the  grinning,  fawning  framework  of  a 
human  being. 

"  Yes,  boys,"  said  Jud  patronizingly  as  Stallings  went 
out,  "  this  here  mill  is  a  god-send  to  us  po'  folks  who've 
got  chillun  to  burn.  They  ain't  a  day  we  ortenter  git 
down  on  our  knees  an'  thank  Mr.  Kingsley  an'  Mister 
Travis  there.  You  know  I  done  took  down  that  sign  I 
useter  have  hangin'  up  in  my  house  in  the  hall  —  that 
sign  which  said,  God  bless  our  home?  I've  put  up  an 
other  one  now." 

"  What  you  done  put  up  now,  Jud  ?  "  grinned  a  tall 
weaver  with  that  blank  look  of  expectancy  which  settles 
over  the  face  of  the  middle  man  in  a  negro  minstrel 
troupe  when  he  passes  the  stale  question  to  the  end  man, 
knowing  the  joke  which  was  coming. 

"  Why,   I've  put  up,"  said  Jud  brutally,  *  '  Suffer 


PAY-DAY  453 

Little  Children  to  Come  Unto  Me.9     That's  scriptural 
authority  for  cotton  mills,  ain't  it  ?  " 

The  paying  went  on,  after  the  uproarious  laughter 
had  subsided,  and  down  the  long  row  only  the  clinking 
of  silver  was  heard,  intermingled  now  and  then  with  the 
shrill  voice  of  some  creature  disputing  with  Kingsley 
about  her  account.  Generally  it  ran  thus :  "  It  cyant  be 
thet  a-way.  Sixty  hours  at  -five  cents  an  hour  —  wal, 
but  didn't  the  chillun  wuck  no  longer  than  that?  I 
cyant  —  /  cyant  —  /  jes'  cyant  live  on  that  little  bit" 

Such  it  was,  and  it  floated  down  the  line  to  Helen  like 
the  wail  of  a  lost  soul.  When  her  time  came  Kingsley 
met  her  with  a  smile.  Then  he  gave  her  an  order  and 
Travis  handed  her  a  bright  crisp  ten-dollar  bill. 

She  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  "  But  —  but," 
she  said.  "  Surely,  I  didn't  earn  all  this,  did  I?  Mag 
gie —  yOU  ha(j  to  pay  Maggie  for  teaching  me  this 
week.  It  was  she  who  earned  it.  I  cannot  take  it." 

Kingsley  smiled :  "  If  you  must  know  —  though  we 
promised  her  we  would  not  tell  you,"  he  said  — "  no, 
Miss  Conway,  you  did  not  earn  but  five  dollars  this  week. 
The  other  five  is  Maggie's  gift  to  you  —  she  left  it 
here  for  you." 

She  looked  at  him  stupidly  —  in  dazed  gratitude. 
Travis  came  forward: 

"  I've  ordered  Jim  to  take  you  home  to-night.  I  can 
not  leave  now." 

And  he  led  her  out  to  where  the  trotters  stood.  He 
lifted  her  in,  pressing  her  hand  as  he  did  so  —  but  she 
did  not  know  it  —  she  burned  with  a  strange  fullness 
in  her  throat  as  she  clutched  her  money,  the  first  she 


454        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

had   ever   earned,   and   thought   of   Maggie  —  Maggie. 
dying  and  unselfish. 

Work  —  it  had  opened  a  new  life  to  her.  Work  — 
and  never  before  had  she  known  the  sweetness  of  it. 

"  Oh,  father,"  she  said  when  she  reached  home,  "  I 
have  made  some  money  —  I  can  support  you  and  Lily 
now." 

When  Travis  returned  Jud  Carpenter  met  him  at  the 
door. 

"  I  had  a  mess  o'  trouble  gittin'  that  gal  into  the 
mill.  Huh !  but  ain't  she  a  beaut !  I  guess  you  'orter 
tip  me  for  throwin'  sech  a  peach  as  that  into  yo'  arms. 
Oh,  you're  a  sly  one  —  '  he  went  on  whisperingly  — 
"  the  smoothest  one  with  women  I  ever  seed.  But  you'll 
have  to  thank  me  for  that  queen.  Guess  I'll  go  down 
an'  take  a  dram.  I  want  to  git  the  lint  out  of  my 
throat." 

"  I'll  be  down  later,"  said  Travis  as  he  looked  at  his 
watch.  "  Charley  Biggers  and  I.  It's  our  night  to 
have  a  little  fun  with  the  bo}^s." 

"  I'll  see  you  there,"  said  Jud. 

The  clinking  of  silver,  questions,  answers,  and  ex 
postulations  went  on.  In  the  midst  of  it  there  was  the 
sudden  shrill  wail  of  an  angry  child. 

"  I  wants  some  of  my  money,  Paw  —  I  wants  to  buy  a 
ginger  man." 

Then  came  a  cruel  slap  which  was  heard  all  over  the 
room,  and  the  boy  of  ten,  a  wild-eyed  and  unkempt 
thing,  staggered  and  grasped  his  face  where  the  blow 
fell. 

"  Take  that,  you  sassy  meddling  up-start  —  you  be- 


PAY-DAY  455 

long  tx?  me  till  you  are  twenty-one  years  old.  What 
'ud  you  do  with  a  ginger  man  'cept  to  eat  it?  "  He 
cuffed  the  boy  through  the  door  and  sent  him  flying 
home. 

It  was  Joe  Sykes,  the  wages  of  whose  children  kept 
him  in  active  drunkenness  and  chronic  inertia.  He  was 
the  champion  loafer  of  the  town. 

In  a  short  time  he  had  drawn  a  pocketful  of  silver, 
and  going  out  soon  overtook  Jud  Carpenter. 

"  I  tell  you,  Jud,  we  mus'  hold  these  kids  down  —  we 
heads  of  the  family.  I've  mighty  nigh  broke  myself 
down  this  week  a  controllin'  mine.  Goin'  down  to  take 
a  drink  or  two?  Same  to  you." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  PLOT 

A    VILLAGE  bar-room  is  a  village  hell. 
Jud   Carpenter   and   Joe  Hopper  were  soon 
there,  and  the  silver  their  children  had  earned 
at  the  mill  began  to  go  for  drinks. 

The  drinks  made  them  feel  good.  They  resolved  to 
feel  better,  so  they  drank  again.  As  they  drank  the 
talk  grew  louder.  They  were  joined  by  others  from  the 
town  —  ne'er-do-wells,  who  hung  around  the  bar  —  and 
others  from  the  mill. 

And  so  they  drank  and  sang  and  danced  and  played 
cards  and  drank  again,  and  threw  dice  for  more  drinks. 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  before  the  Bacchanal  laugh 
began  to  ring  out  at  intervals  —  so  easily  distinguished 
from  the  sober  laugh,  in  that  it  carries  in  its  closing 
tones  the  queer  ring  of  the  maniac's. 

Only  the  mill  men  had  any  cash.  The  village  loafers 
drank  at  their  expense,  and  on  credit. 

"  And  why  should  we  not  drink  if  we  wish,"  said  one 
of  them.  "  Our  children  earned  the  money  and  do  we 
not  own  the  children  ?  " 

Twice  only  were  they  interrupted.  Once  by  the  wife 
of  a  weaver  who  came  in  and  pleaded  with  her  husband 
for  part  of  their  children's  money.  Her  tears  touched 
the  big-hearted  Billy  Buch,  and  as  her  husband  was  too 

456 


THE  PLOT  457 

drunk  to  know  what  he  was  doing,  Billy  took  what 
money  he  had  left  and  gave  it  to  the  wife.  She  had  a 
sick  child,  she  told  Billy  Buch,  and  what  money  she  had 
would  not  even  buy  the  medicine. 

Billy  squinted  the  corner  of  one  eye  and  looked  sol 
emnly  at  the  husband :  "  He  ha'f  ten  drinks  in  him 
ag'in,  already.  I  vil  gif  you  pay  for  eet  all  for  the 
child.  An'  here  ees  one  dollar  mo'  from  Billy  Buch. 
Now  go,  goot  voman." 

The  other  interruption  was  the  redoubtable  Mrs.  Bil 
lings ;  her  brother,  also  a  slubber,  had  arrived  early,  but 
had  scarcely  taken  two  delightful,  exquisite  drinks  be 
fore  she  came  on  the  scene,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  hair 
disheveled,  and  her  hand  playing  familiarly  with  some 
thing  under  her  apron. 

Her  presence  threw  them  into  a  panic. 

"  Mine  Gott !  "  said  Billy,  turning  pale.  "  Eet  es 
Meeses  Billings  an'  her  crockery." 

Half  a  dozen  jubilants  pointed  out  a  long-haired  man 
at  a  center  table  talking  proudly  of  his  physical  strength 
and  bravery. 

"  Cris  Ham?"  beckoned  Mrs.  Billings,  feeling  ner 
vously  under  her  apron.  "  Come  with  me !  " 

"  I'll  be  along  t'orectly,  sis." 

"  You  will  come  now,"  she  said,  and  her  hands  began 
to  move  ominously  beneath  her  apron. 

"  To  be  sho',"  he  said  as  he  walked  out  with  her.  "  I 
didn't  know  you  felt  that  away  about  it,  sis." 

It  was   after  ten   o'clock   when  the  quick  roll  of   a 


458        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

buggy  came  up  to  the  door,  and  Richard  Travis  and 
Charley  Biggers  alighted. 

They  had  both  been  drinking.  Slowly,  surely,  Tra 
vis  was  going  down  in  the  scale  of  degeneracy.  Slowly 
the  loose  life  he  was  leading  was  lowering  him  to  the 
level  of  the  common  herd.  A  few  years  ago  he  would 
not  have  thought  of  drinking  with  his  own  mill  hands. 
To-night  he  was  there,  the  most  reckless  of  them  all. 
Analyzed,  it  was  for  the  most  part  conceit  with  him; 
ihc  low  conceit  of  the  superior  intellect  which  would 
mingle  in  infamy  with  the  lowest  to  gain  its  ignorant 
liomage.  For  Intellect  must  have  homage  if  it  has  to 
drag  it  from  the  slums. 

Charley  Biggers  was  short  and  boyish,  with  a  fat, 
round  face.  When  he  laughed  he  showed  a  fine  set  of 
big,  sensual  teeth.  His  eyes  were  jolly,  flighty,  insin 
cere.  Weakness  was  written  all  over  him,  from  a  derby 
hat  sitting  back  rakishly  on  his  forehead  to  the  small, 
effeminate  boot  that  fitted  so  neatly  his  small  effeminate 
foot.  He  had  a  small  hand  and  his  little  sensual  face 
had  not  a  rough  feature  on  it.  It  was  set  off  by  a 
pudgy,  half -formed  dab  of  a  nose  that  let  his  breath 
in  and  out  when  his  mouth  happened  to  be  shut.  His 
eyes  were  the  eyes  of  one  who  sees  no  wrong  in  any 
thing. 

They  came  in  and  pulled  off  their  gloves,  daintily. 
They  threw  their  overcoats  on  a  chair.  Travis  glanced 
around  the  circle  of  the  four  or  five  who  were  left  and 
said  pompously: 

"  Come  up,  gentlemen,  and  have  something  at  my  ex 
pense."  Then  he  walked  up  to  the  bar. 


THE  PLOT  459 

They  came.  They  considered  it  both  a  pleasure  and 
an  honor,  as  Jud  Carpenter  expressed  it,  to  drink  with 
him. 

"  It  is  a  good  idea  to  mingle  with  them  now  and 
then,"  whispered  Travis  to  Charley.  "  It  keeps  me  solid 
with  them  —  health,  gentlemen !  " 

Charley  Bigger s  showed  his  good-natured  teeth: 

"  Health,  gentlemen,"  he  grinned. 

Then  he  hiccoughed  through  his  weak  little  nose. 

"  Joe  Hopper  can't  rise,  gentlemen,  Joe  is  drunk,  an' 
—  an'  a  widderer,  besides,"  hiccoughed  Joe  from  below. 

Joe  had  been  a  widower  for  a  year.  His  wife,  after 
being  the  mother  of  eleven  children,  who  now  supported 
Joe  in  his  drunkenness,  had  passed  away. 

Then  Joe  burst  into  tears. 

"What's  up,  Joe?"  asked  Jud  kindly. 

"  Liza's  dead,"  he  wailed. 

"  Why,  she's  been  dead  a  year,"  said  Jud. 

"Don't  keer,  Jud  —  I'm  jes' — jes'  beginnin'  to  feel 
it  now  " —  and  he  wept  afresh. 

It  was  too  much  for  Charley  Biggers,  and  he  also 
wept.  Travis  looked  fixedly  at  the  ceiling  and  recited 
portions  of  the  Episcopal  burial  service.  Then  Jud 
wept.  They  all  wept. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Travis  solemnly,  "  let  us  drink  to 
the  health  of  the  departed  Mrs.  Hopper.  Here's  to 
her !  " 

This  cheered  all  except  Joe  Hopper  —  he  refused  to 
be  comforted.  They  tried  to  console  him,  but  he  only 
wept  the  more.  They  went  on  drinking  and  left  him 
out,  but  this  did  not  tend  to  diminish  his  tears. 


460        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  Oh,  Mister  Hopper,  shet  up,"  said  Jud  peremp 
torily  — "  close  up  —  I've  arranged  for  you  to  marry  a 
grass-widder." 

This  cheered  him  greatly. 

"  O  Jud  —  Jud  —  if  I  marry  a  grass-widder  whut  — - 
whut'll  I  be  then?" 

"  Why,  a  grasshopper,  sure,"  said  Travis. 

They  all  roared.  Then  Jud  winked  at  Travis  and 
Travis  winked  at  the  others.  Then  they  sat  around  a 
table,  all  winking  except  poor  Joe,  wrho  continued  to 
weep  at  the  thought  of  being  a  grasshopper.  He  did 
not  quite  understand  how  it  was,  but  he  knew  that  in 
some  way  he  was  to  be  changed  into  a  grasshopper, 
with  long  green  wings  and  legs  to  match. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Jud  seriously  — "  it  is  our  duty 
to  help  out  po'  Joe.  Now,  Joe,  we've  arranged  it  for 
you  to  marry  Miss  Kate  Galloway  —  the  grass-widder." 

"  Not  Miss  Kate,"  said  Travis  with  becoming  serious 
ness. 

"  Why  not  her,  Mr.  Travis?  "  asked  Jud,  winking. 

"  Because  his  children  will  be  Katydids,"  said  Travis. 

This  brought  on  thundering  roars  of  laughter  and 
drinks  all  around.  Only  Joe  wept  —  wept  to  think  his 
children  would  be  katydids. 

"  Now,  Joe,  it's  this  way.  I've  talked  it  all  over  and 
arranged  it.  That's  what  we've  met  for  to-night  — 
ain't  it,  gents?"  said  Jud. 

"  Sure  —  sure,"  they  all  exclaimed. 

"  Now,  Joe,  you  mus'  dry  yo'  tears  an'  become  recon 
ciled  —  we've  got  a  nice  scheme  fixed  for  you." 


THE  PLOT  461 

"  I'll  never  be  reconciled  —  never,"  wailed  Joe. 
"  Liza's  dead  an' —  I'm  a  grasshopper." 

"  Now,  wait  till  I  explain  to  you  —  but,  dear,  devoted 
friend,  everything  is  ready.  The  widder's  been  seen 
an'  all  you've  got  to  do  is  to  come  with  us  and  get  her." 

"  She's  a  mighty  handsome  'oman,"  said  Jud,  wink 
ing  his  eye.  "  Dear  —  dear  frien's  —  all  —  I'm  f eelin' 
reconciled  already  " —  said  Joe. 

They  all  joined  in  the  roar.  Jud  winked.  They  all 
winked.  Jud  went  on: 

"  Joe,  dear,  dear  Joe  —  we  have  had  thy  welfare  at 
heart,  as  the  books  say.  We  wanted  thee  to  become  a 
millionaire.  Thou  hast  eleven  children  to  begin  with. 
They  pay  you  — " 

"Eighteen  dollars  a  week,  clear," — said  Joe 
proudly. 

"  Well,  now,  Joe  —  it's  all  arranged  —  you  marry 
the  widder  an'  in  the  course  of  time  you'll  have  eleven 
mo'.  That's  another  eighteen  dollars  —  or  thirty-six 
dollars  a  week  clear  in  the  mills." 

"  Now,  but  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  said  Joe  en 
thusiastically  — "  that's  a  fact.  When  —  when  did  you 
say  the  ceremony'd  be  performed  ?  " 

"  Hold  on,"  said  Jud,  "  now,  we've  studied  this  thing 
nil  out  for  you.  You're  a  Mormon  —  the  only  one  of 
us  that  is  a  Mormon  —  openly." 

They  all  laughed. 

"Openly-  '  he  went  on — "you've  j'ined  the  Mor 
mon  church  here  up  in  the  mountains." 

"  But  we  don't  practise  polygamy  —  now  " —  said 
Joe. 


THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  That's  only  on  account  of  the  Grand  Jury  and  the 
law  —  not  yo'  religion.  You  see  —  you'll  marry  an'  go 
to  Utah  —  but  —  es  the  kids  come  you'll  sen'  'em  all 
down  here  to  the  mills  —  every  one  a  kinder  livin' 
coupon.  All  any  man's  got  to  do  in  this  country  to  git 
rich  is  to  marry  enough  wives." 

"  Can  I  do  that —  do  the  marry  in'  in  Utah  an'  keep 
sendin'  the  —  the  chilluns  down  to  the  mill?  "  His  eyes 
glittered. 

"  Sart'inly  "—  said  Jud  — "  sure  !  " 

"  Then  there's  Miss  Carewe  "  -  he  went  on  — "  you 
haf'ter  cal' elate  on  feedin'  several  wives  in  ooe,  with 
her.  But  say  eleven  mo'  by  her.  That's  thirty-seven 
mo'." 

Joe  jumped  up. 

"Is  she  willin'?" 

"  Done  seen  her,"  said  Jud ;  "  she  say  come  on." 

"  Hold  on,"  said  Travis  with  feigned  anger.  "  Hold 
on.  Joe  is  fixin'  to  start  a  cotton-mill  of  his  own. 
That'll  interfere  with  the  Acme.  No  —  no  —  we  must 
vote  it  down.  We  mustn't  let  Joe  do  it." 

Joe  had  already  attempted  to  rise  and  start  after  his 
wives.  But  in  the  roar  of  laughter  that  followed  he  sat 
dow-n  and  began  to  weep  again  for  'Liza. 

It  was  nearly  midnight.  Only  Travis,  Charley  Big- 
gers  and  Jud  remained  sober  enough  to  talk.  Charley 
was  telling  of  Tilly  and  her  wondrous  beauty. 

"  Now  —  it's  this  way,"  he  hiccoughed  — "  I've  got 
to  go  off  to  school  —  but  —  but  —  I've  thought  of  a 
plan  to  marry  her  first,  with  a  bogus  license  and 
preacher." 


THE  PLOT  4*63 

There  was  a  whispered  conversation  among  them,  end 
ing  in  a  shout  of  applause. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  takin'  yo'  queen  at  the 
same  time  ?  "  asked  Jud  of  Travis. 

Travis,  drunk  as  he  was,  winced  to  think  that  he 
would  ever  permit  Jud  Carpenter  to  suggest  what  he 
had  intended  should  only  be  known  to  himself.  His 
tongue  was  thick,  his  brain  whirled,  and  there  were  gaps 
in  his  thoughts ;  but  through  the  thickness  and  heaviness 
he  thought  how  low  he  had  fallen.  Lower  yet  when, 
despite  all  his  vanishing  reserve,  all  his  dignity  and  ex- 
clusiveness,  he  laughed  sillily  and  said: 

"  Just  what  I  had  decided  to  do  —  two  queens  and 


an  ace." 


They  all  cheered  drunkenly. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MRS.    WESTMORE    TAKES    A    HAND 


ii*TTTHAT  are  you  playing,  Alice?  " 

\   f          T^e   daughter   arose   from   the   piano  and 
kissed  her  mother,  holding  for  a  moment  the 
pretty  face,  crowned  with  white  hair,  between  her  two 
palms. 

-  it  is  an  old  song  which  Tom  and  I  used  to  love 
to  sing." 

The  last  of  the  sentence  came  so  slowly  that  it  sank 
almost  into  silence,  as  of  one  beginning  a  sentence  and 
becoming  so  absorbed  in  the  subject  as  to  forget  the 
speech.  Then  she  turned  again  to  the  piano,  as  if  to 
hide  from  her  mother  the  sorrow  which  had  crept  into 
her  face. 

;<  You  should  cease  to  think  of  that.  Such  things  are 
dreams  —  at  present  we  are  confronted  by  very  disa 
greeable  realities." 

"  Dreams  —  ah,  mother  mine  "  —  she  answered  with 
forced  cheeriness  —  "but  what  would  life  be  without 
them?" 

"  For  one  thing,  Alice  "  —  and  she  took  the  daugh 
ter's  place  at  the  piano  and  began  to  play  snatches  of 
an  old  waltz  tune  —  "  it  would  be  free  from  all  the  mor 
bid  unnaturalness,  the  silliness,  the  froth  of  things. 
There  is  too  much  hardness  in  every  life  —  in  the  world 

464 


MRS.  WESTMORE  TAKES  A  HAND     465 

-  in  the  very  laws  of  life,  for  sucli  things  ever  to  have 
been  part  of  the  original  plan.  For  my  part,  I  think 
they  are  the  product  of  man  and  wine  or  women  or  mor 
phine  or  some  other  narcotic." 

"  We  make  the  dreams  of  life,  but  the  realities  of  it 
make  us,"  she  added. 

"  Oh,  no,  mother.  'Tis  the  dreams  that  make  the 
realities.  Not  a  great  established  fact  exists  but  it  was 
once  the  vision  of  a  dreamer.  Our  dreams  to-day  be 
come  the  realities  of  to-morrow." 

"  Do  you  believe  Tom  is  not  dead  —  that  he  will  one 
day  come  back?"  asked  her  mother  abruptly. 

It  was  twilight  and  the  fire  flickered,  lighting  up  the 
library.  But  in  the  flash  of  it  Mrs.  Westmore  saw 
Alice's  cheek  whiten  in  a  hopeless,  helpless,  stricken  way. 

Then  she  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out  on  the 
darkness  fast  closing  in  on  the  lawn,  clustering  denser 
around  the  evergreens  and  creeping  ghostlike  toward  the 
dim  sky  line  which  shone  clear  in  the  open. 

The  very  helplessness  of  her  step,  her  silence,  her 
numbed,  yearning  look  across  the  lawn  told  Mrs.  West- 
more  of  the  death  of  all  hope  there. 

She  followed  her  daughter  and  put  her  arms  impul 
sively  around  her. 

"  I  should  not  have  hurt  you  so,  Alice.  I  only  wanted 
to  show  you  how  worse  than  useless  it  is  .  .  .  but 
to  change  the  subject,  I  do  wish  to  speak  to  you  of  — 
our  condition." 

Alice  was  used  to  her  mother's  ways  —  her  brilliancy 
-  her  pointed  manner  of  going  at  things  —  her  quick 
change  of  thought  —  of  mood,  and  even  of  tempera- 
30 


466        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

ment.  An  outsider  would  have  judged  Mrs.  Westmore 
to  be  fickle  with  a  strong  vein  of  selfishness  and  even  of 
egotism.  Alice  only  knew  that  she  was  her  mother ;  who 
had  suffered  much ;  who  had  been  reduced  by  poverty  to 
a  condition  straitened  even  to  hardships.  To  help  her 
the  daughter  knew  that  she  was  willing  to  make  any 
sacrifice.  Unselfish,  devoted,  clear  as  noonday  in  her 
own  ideas  of  right  and  wrong,  Alice's  one  weakness  was 
her  blind  devotion  to  those  she  loved.  A  weakness  beau 
tiful  and  even  magnificent,  since  it  might  mean  a  sacri 
fice  of  her  heart  for  another.  The  woman  who  gives 
her  time,  her  money,  her  life,  even,  to  another  gives 
but  a  small  part  of  her  real  self.  But  there  is  some 
thing  truly  heroic  when  she  throws  in  her  heart  also. 
For  when  a  woman  has  given  that  she  has  given  all ;  and 
because  she  has  thrown  it  in  cold  and  dead  —  a  lifeless 
thing  —  matters  not ;  in  the  poignancy  of  the  giving 
it  is  gone  from  her  forever  and  she  may  not  recall  it 
even  with  the  opportunity  of  bringing  it  back  to  life. 

She  who  gives  her  all,  but  keeps  her  heart,  is  as  a 
priest  reading  mechanically  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount 
from  the  Bible.  But  she  who  gives  her  heart  never  to 
take  it  back  again  gives  as  the  Christ  dying  on  the  Cross. 

"  Now,  here  is  the  legal  paper  about " 

Her  voice  failed  and  she  did  not  finish  the  sentence. 

Alice  took  the  paper  and  glanced  at  it.  She  flushed 
and  thrust  it  into  her  pocket.  They  were  silent  a  while 
and  Mrs.  Westmore  sat  thinking  of  the  past.  Alice 
knew  it  by  the  great  reminiscent  light  which  gleamed  in 
her  eyes.  She  thought  of  the  time  when  she  had  ser 
vants,  money,  friends  unlimited  —  of  the  wealth  and  in- 


MRS.  WESTMORE  TAKES  A  HAND     467 

fluence  of  her  husband  —  of  the  glory  of  Westmore 
land. 

Every  one  has  some  secret  ambition  kept  from  the 
eyes  of  every  living  soul  —  often  even  to  die  in  its 
keeper's  breast.  It  is  oftenest  a  mean  ambition  of  which 
one  is  ashamed  and  so  hides  it  from  the  world.  It  is 
often  the  one  weakness.  Alice  never  knew  what  was  her 
mother's.  She  did  not  indeed  know  that  she  had  one, 
for  this  one  thing  Mrs.  Westmore  had  kept  inviolately 
secret.  But  in  her  heart  there  had  always  rankled  a 
secret  jealousy  when  she  thought  of  The  Gaffs.  It  had 
been  there  since  she  could  remember  —  a  feeling  cher 
ished  secretly,  too,  by  her  husband:  for  in  everything 
their  one  idea  had  been  that  Westmoreland  should  sur 
pass  The  Gaffs, —  that  it  should  be  handsomer,  better 
kept,  more  prosperous,  more  famous. 

Now,  Westmoreland  was  gone  —  this  meant  the  last 
of  it.  It  would  be  sold,  even  the  last  hundred  acres  of 
it,  with  the  old  home  on  it.  Gone  —  gone  — all  her 
former  glory  —  all  her  family  tradition,  her  memories, 
her  very  name. 

Gone,  and  The  Gaffs  remained! 

Remained  in  all  its  intactness  —  its  beauty  —  its  well 
equipped  barns  with  all  the  splendor  of  its  former  days. 
For  so  great  was  the  respect  of  Schofield's  army  for 
the  character  of  Colonel  Jeremiah  Travis  that  his  home 
escaped  the  torch  when  it  was  applied  to  many  others 
in  the  Tennessee  Valley.  And  Richard  Travis  had  been 
shrewd  enough  after  the  war  to  hold  his  own.  Joining 
the  party  of  the  negro  after  the  war,  he  had  been  its 
political  ruler  in  the  county.  And  the  Honorable  Rich- 


468        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

ard  Travis  had  been  offered  anything  he  wanted.  At 
present  he  was  State  Senator.  He  with  others  called 
himself  a  Republican  —  one  of  the  great  party  of  Lin 
coln  to  which  the  negroes  after  their  enfranchisement 
united  themselves.  It  was  a  fearful  misnomer.  The 
Republican  party  in  the  South,  composed  of  ninety-nine 
ignorant  negroes  to  one  renegade  white,  about  as  truly 
represented  the  progressive  party  of  Lincoln  as  a  black 
vampire  the  ornithology  of  all  lands.  Indeed,  since  the 
war,  there  has  never  been  in  the  South  either  a  Repub 
lican  or  a  Democratic  party.  The  party  line  is  not 
drawn  on  belief  but  on  race  and  color.  The  white  men, 
believing  everything  they  please  from  free  trade  to  pro 
tection,  vote  a  ticket  which  they  call  Democratic.  The 
negroes,  and  a  few  whites  who  allied  themselves  with 
them  for  the  spoils  of  office,  vote  the  other  ticket.  Nei 
ther  of  them  represent  anything  but  a  race  issue. 

To  this  negro  party  belonged  Richard  Travis  —  and 
the  price  of  his  infamy  had  been  Honorable  before  his 
name. 

But  Mrs.  Westmore  cared  nothing  for  this.  She 
only  knew  that  he  was  a  leader  of  men,  was  handsome, 
well  reared  and  educated,  and  that  he  owned  The  Gaffs, 
her  old  rival.  And  that  there  it  stood,  a  fortune  —  a 
refuge  —  a  rock  —  offered  to  her  and  her  daughter, 
offered  by  a  man  who,  whatever  his  other  faults,  was 
brave  and  dashing,  sincere  in  his  idolatrous  love  for  her 
daughter.  That  he  would  make  Alice  happy  she  did 
not  doubt;  for  Mrs.  Westmore's  idea  of  happiness  was 
in  having  wealth  and  position  and  a  splendid  name. 


MRS.  WESTMORE  TAKES  A  HAND     469 

Having  no  real  heart,  how  was  it  possible  for  her  to 
know,  as  Alice  could  know,  the  happiness  of  love? 

An  eyeless  fish  in  the  river  of  Mammoth  Cave  might 
as  well  try  to  understand  what  light  meant. 

He  would  make  Alice  happy,  of  course  he  would ;  he 
would  make  her  happy  by  devotion,  which  he  was  eager 
to  give  her  with  an  unstinted  hand.  Alice  needed  it, 
she  herself  needed  it.  It  was  common  sense  to  accept 
it, —  business  sense.  It  was  opportunity  —  fate.  It 
was  the  reward  of  a  life  —  the  triumph  of  it  —  to  have 
her  old  rival  —  enemy  —  bound  and  presented  to  her. 

And  nothing  stood  between  her  and  the  accomplish 
ment  of  it  all  but  the  foolish  romance  of  her  daughter's 
youth. 

And  so  she  sat  building  her  castles  and  thinking : 

"  With  The  Gaffs,  with  Richard  Travis  and  his  money 
would  come  all  I  wish,  both  for  her  and  for  me.  Once 
more  I  would  hold  the  social  position  I  once  held:  once 
more  I  would  be  something  in  the  world.  And  Alice, 
of  course,  she  would  be  happy ;  for  her's  is  one  of  those 
trusting  natures  which  finds  first  where  her  duty  points 
and  then  makes  her  heart  follow." 

But  Mrs.  Westmore  wisely  kept  silent.  She  did  not 
think  aloud.  She  knew  too  well  that  Alice's  sympa 
thetic,  unselfish,  obedient  spirit  was  thinking  it  over. 

She  sat  down  by  her  mother  and  took  up  a  pet  kitten 
which  had  come  purring  in,  begging  for  sympathy.  She 
stroked  it  thoughtfully. 

Mrs.  Westmore  read  her  daughter's  thoughts: 

"  So  many  people,"  the  mother  said  after  a  while, 
"  have  false  ideas  of  love  and  marriage.  Like  ignorant 


470         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

people  when  they  get  religion,  they  think  a  great  and 
sudden  change  must  come  over  them  —  changing  their 
very  lives." 

She  laughed  her  ringing  little  laugh :  "  I  told  you 
of  your  father's  and  my  love  affair.  Why,  I  was  en 
gaged  to  three  other  men  at  the  same  time  —  positively 
I  was.  And  I  would  have  been  just  as  happy  with  any 
of  them." 

"  Why  did  you  marry  father,  then  ?  " 

Her  mother  laughed  and  tapped  the  toe  of  her  shoe 
playfully  against  the  fender :  "  It  was  a  silly  reason ; 
he  swam  the  Tennessee  River  on  his  horse  to  see  me  one 
day,  when  the  ferry-boat  was  a  wreck.  I  married  him." 

"  Would  not  the  others  have  done  as  well  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  knew  your  father  was  brave.  You  can 
not  love  a  coward  —  no  woman  can.  But  let  a  man  be 
brave  —  no  matter  what  his  faults  are  —  the  rest  is  all  a 
question  of  time.  You  would  soon  learn  to  love  him  as 
I  did  your  father." 

Mrs.  Westmore  was  wise.      She  changed  the  subject. 

"  Have  you  noticed  Uncle  Bisco  lately,  mother? " 
asked  Alice  after  a  while. 

"  Why,  yes ;  I  intended  to  ask  you  about  him." 

"  He  says  there  are  threats  against  his  life  —  his  and 
Aunt  Charity's.  He  had  a  terrible  dream  last  night, 
and  he  would  have  me  to  interpret  it." 

"  Quite  Biblical,"  laughed  her  mother.  "  What  was 
it?" 

"  They  have  been  very  unhappy  all  day  —  you  know 
the  negroes  have  been  surly  and  revengeful  since  the 
election  of  Governor  Houston  —  they  believe  they  will 


MRS.  WESTMORE  TAKES  A  HAND     471 

be  put  back  into  slavery  and  they  know  that  Uncle  Bisco 
voted  with  his  white  friends.  It  is  folly,  of  course  —  but 
they  beat  Captain  Roland's  old  body  servant  nearly  to 
death  because  he  voted  with  his  old  master.  And  Uncle 
Bisco  has  heard  threats  that  he  and  Aunt  Charity  will  be 
visited  in  a  like  manner.  I  think  it  will  soon  blow  over, 
though  at  times  I  confess  I  am  often  worried  about 
them,  living  alone  so  far  off  from  us,  in  the  cabin  in  the 
wood." 

"  What  was  Uncle  Bisco's  dream?  "  asked  Mrs.  West- 
more. 

"  Why,  he  said  an  angel  had  brought  him  water  to 
drink  from  a  Castellonian  Spring.  Now,  I  don't  know 
what  a  Castellonian  Spring  is,  but  that  was  the  word  he 
used,  and  that  he  was  turned  into  a  live-oak  tree,  old  and 
moss-grown.  Then  he  stood  in  the  forest  surrounded 
by  scrub-oaks  and  towering  over  them  and  other  mean 
trees  when  suddenly  they  all  fell  upon  him  and  cut  him 
down.  Now,  he  says,  these  scrub-oaks  are  the  radical 
negroes  who  wish  to  kill  him  for  voting  with  the  whites. 
You  will  laugh  at  my  interpretation,"  she  went  on.  "  I 
told  him  that  the  small  black  oaks  were  years  that  still 
stood  around  him,  but  that  finally  they  would  over 
power  him  and  he  would  sink  to  sleep  beneath  them,  as 
we  must  all  eventually  do.  I  think  it  reassured  him  — 
but,  mamma,  I  am  uneasy  about  the  two  old  people." 

"  If  the  Bishop  were  here  — " 

"  He  would  sleep  in  the  house  with  a  shotgun,  I  fear," 
laughed  Alice. 

They  were  silent  at  last :  "  When  did  you  say  Rich 
ard  was  coming  again,  Alice?" 


472        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  To-morrow  night  —  and  —  and  —  I  hear  Clay  in 
his  laboratory.  I  will  go  and  talk  to  him  before  bed 
time." 

She  stooped  and  kissed  her  mother.  To  her  surprise, 
she  found  her  mother's  arms  around  her  neck  and  heard 
her  whisper  brokenly : 

"  Alice  —  Alice  —  you  could  solve  it  all  if  you  would. 
Think  —  think  —  what  it  would  mean  to  me  —  to  all 
of  us  —  oh,  I  can  stand  this  poverty  no  longer  —  this 
fight  against  that  which  we  cannot  overcome." 

She  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  Never  before  had 
Alice  seen  her  show  her  emotions  over  their  condition, 
and  it  hurt  her,  stabbed  her  to  the  vital  spot  of  all  obedi 
ence  and  love. 

With  moistened  eyes  she  went  into  her  brother's  room. 

And  Mrs.  Westmore  wrote  a  note  to  Richard  Travis. 
It  did  not  say  so  in  words  but  it  meant:  "  Come  and 
be  bold  —  you  have  won" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A   QUESTION   BROUGHT   HOME 

44~T~  SHALL  go  to  Boston  next  week  to  meet  the  di 
rectors  of  the  mill  and  give  in  my  annual  re 
port." 

The  three  had  been  sitting  in  Westmoreland  library 
this  Sunday  night  —  for  Richard  Travis  came  regu 
larly  every  Sunday  night,  and  he  had  been  talking 
about  the  progress  of  the  mill  and  the  great  work  it 
was  doing  for  the  poor  whites  of  the  valley.  "  I  imag 
ine,"  he  added,  "  that  they  will  be  pleased  with  the  re 
port  this  year." 

"  But  are  you  altogether  pleased  with  it  in  all  its 
features?"  asked  Alice  thoughtfully. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean,  Alice?  "  asked  her  mother, 
surprised. 

"  Just  this,  mother,  and  I  have  been  thinking  of  talk 
ing  to  Richard  about  it  for  some  time." 

Travis  took  his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  and  looked  at 
her  quizzically. 

She  flushed  under  his  gaze  and  added :  "  If  I  wasn't 
saying  what  I  am  for  humanity's  sake  I  would  be  willing 
to  admit  that  it  was  impertinent  on  my  part.  But  are 
you  satisfied  with  the  way  you  work  little  children  in 
that  mill,  Richard,  and  are  you  willing  to  let  it  go  on 
without  a  protest  before  your  directors?  You  have 

473 


474         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

such  a  fine  opportunity  for  good  there,"  she  added  in  ail 
her  old  beautiful  earnestness. 

"  Oh,  Alice,  my  dear,  that  is  none  of  our  affair.  Now 
I  should  not  answer  her,  Richard,"  and  Mrs.  Westmore 
tapped  him  playfully  on  the  arm. 

"  Frankly,  I  am  not,"  he  said  to  Alice.  "  I  think  it 
is  a  horrible  thing.  But  how  are  we  to  remedy  it? 
There  is  no  law  on  the  subject  at  all  in  Alabama  — 

"  Except  the  broader,  unwritten  law,"  she  added. 

Travis  laughed :  "  You  will  find  that  it  cuts  a  small 
figure  with  directors  when  it  comes  in  conflict  with  the 
dividends  of  a  corporation." 

"  But  how  is  it  there  ?  "  she  asked, — "  in  New  Eng 
land?" 

"  They  have  seen  the  evils  of  it  and  they  have  a  law 
against  child  labor.  The  age  is  restricted  to  twelve 
years,  and  every  other  year  they  must  go  to  a  public 
school  before  they  may  be  taken  back  into  the  mill. 
But  even  with  all  that,  the  law  is  openly  violated,  as  it  is 
in  England,  where  they  have  been  making  efforts  to 
throttle  the  child -labor  problem  for  nearly  a  century, 
and  after  whose  law  the  New  England  law  was  pat 
terned." 

"  Why,  by  the  parents  of  the  children  falsely  swear 
ing  to  their  age." 

Alice  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Why,  certainly  —  and  it  would  be  the  same  here. 
If  we  had  a  law  the  lazy  parents  of  many  of  them  would 
swear  falsely  to  their  children's  ages." 


A   QUESTION   BKOUGHT   HOME         475 

"  There  could  be  some  way  found  to  stop  that,'7  she 
said." 

"  It  has  not  been  found  jet,"  he  added.  "  What  is 
to  prevent  two  designing  parents  swearing  that  an  eight 
year  old  child  is  twelve  —  and  these  little  poor  whites," 
he  added  with  a  laugh,  "all  look  alike  from  eight  to 
sixteen  —  scrawny  —  hard  and  half-starved.  In  many 
cases  no  living  man  could  swear  whether  they  are  six 
or  twelve." 

"  If  you  really  should  make  it  a  rule  to  refuse  all 
children  under  twelve,"  she  added,  "  tell  me  how  many 
would  go  out  of  your  mill." 

"  In  other  words,  how  many  under  twelve  do  we  work 
there?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded. 

He  thought  a  while  and  then  said :  "  About  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five." 

She  started :  "  That  is  terrible  —  terrible !  Could 
n't  you  —  couldn't  you  bring  the  subject  up  before  the 
directors  for  —  for  — 

"  Your  sake  —  yes  " —  he  said,   admiringly. 

"  Humanity's  —  God's  —  Right's  —  helpless,  ignor 
ant,  dying  children !  " 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  added  quickly,  "  how  many  idle 
parents  these  hundred  and  twenty-five  children  support 
—  actually  support?  Why,  about  fifty.  Now  do 
you  see?  The  whole  influence  of  these  fifty  people 
will  be  to  violate  the  law  —  to  swear  the  children 
are  twelve  or  over.  Yes,  I  am  opposed  to  it  —  so  is 
Kingsley  —  but  we  are  powerless." 

"  My  enthusiasm   has  been  aroused,   of  late,  on   the 


476        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

subject,"  Alice  went  on,  "  by  the  talks  and  preaching  of 
my  old  friend,  Mr.  Watts." 

Travis  frowned :  "  The  old  Bishop  of  Cottontown," 
he  added  ironically  — "  and  he  had  better  stop  it  —  he 
will  get  into  trouble  yet." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  he  is  doing  the  mill  harm." 

"  And  I  don't  suppose  one  should  do  a  corporation 
harm,"  she  said  quickly, — "  even  to  do  humanity 
good?" 

"  Oh,  Alice,  let  us  drop  so  disagreeable  a  subject," 
said  her  mother.  "  Come,  Richard  and  I  want  some 
music." 

"  Any  way,"  said  Alice,  rising,  "  I  do  very  much  hope 
you  will  bring  the  subject  up  in  your  visit  to  the 
directors.  It  has  grown  on  me  under  the  talks  of  the 
old  Bishop  and  what.  I  have  seen  myself — .it  has  be 
come  a  nightmare  to  me." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  any  of  our  business  at  all," 
spoke  up  Mrs.  Westmore  quickly. 

Alice  turned  her  big,  earnest  eyes  and  beautiful  face 
on  her  mother. 

"  Do  you  remember  when  I  was  six  years  old  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  Suppose  —  suppose  —  that  our  poverty  had  come 
to  us  then,  and  you  and  papa  had  died  and  left  brother 
and  me  alone  and  friendless.  Then  suppose  we  had 
been  put  into  that  mill  to  work  fourteen  hours  a  day 
—  we  —  your  own  little  ones  —  brother  and  I  " — 


A  QUESTION  BROUGHT  HOME         477 

Mrs.  Westmore  sprang  up  with  a  little  shriek  and 
put  her  hands  over  her  daughter's  mouth. 

Richard  Travis  shrugged  his  shoulders :  "  I  had 
not  thought  of  it  that  way  myself,"  he  said.  "  That 
goes  home  to  one." 

Richard  Travis  was  always  uplifted  in  the  presence  of 
Alice.  It  was  wonderful  to  him  what  a  difference  in  his 
feelings,  his  behavior,  his  ideas,  her  simple  presence  ex 
erted.  '  As  he  looked  at  her  he  thought  of  last  night's 
debauch  —  the  bar-room  —  the  baseness  and  vileness  of 
it  all.  He  thought  of  his  many  amours.  He  saw  the 
purit}'  and  grandeur  of  her  in  this  contrast —  all  her 
queenlincss  and  beauty  and  simplicity.  He  even  thought 
of  Maggie  and  said  to  himself :  "  Suppose  Alice  should 
know  all  this.  .  .  .  My  God!  I  would  have  no 
more  chance  of  winning  her  than  of  plucking  a  star 
from  the  sky !  " 

He  thought  of  Helen  and  it  made  him  serious. 
Helen's  was  a  different  problem  from  Maggie's.  Mag 
gie  was  a  mill  girl  —  poor,  with  a  bed-ridden  father. 
She  was  nameless.  But  Helen  —  she  was  of  the  same 
blood  and  caste  of  this  beautiful  woman  before  him, 
whom  he  fully  expected  to  make  his  wife.  There  was 
danger  in  Helen  —  he  must  act  boldly,  but  decisively  - 
he  must  take  her  away  with  him  —  out  of  the  Sta.te, 
the  South  even.  Distance  would  be  his  protection,  and 
her  pride  and  shame  would  prevent  her  ever  letting  her 
whereabouts  or  her  fate  be  known. 

Cold-bloodedly,  boldly,  and  with  clear-cut  reasoning, 
all  this  ran  through  his  mind  as  he  stood  looking  at 
Alice  Westmore. 


478         THE   BISHOP   OF   COTTONTOWN 

We  are  strangely  made — the  best  of  us.  Men  have 
looked  on  the  Madonna  and  wondered  why  the  artist 
had  not  put  more  humanity  there — had  not  given  her 
a  sensual  lip,  perhaps.  And  on  the  Cross,  the  Christ 
was  thinking  of  a  thief. 

Two  hours  later  he  was  bidding  her  good-bye. 
"  Next    Sunday,    do    you    remember  —  Alice  —  next 
Sunday    night '  you    are    to   tell    me  —  to   fix    the    day, 
Sweet?" 

"  Did  mother  tell  you  that? "  she  asked.  "  She 
should  let  me  speak  for  myself." 

But  somehow  he  felt  that  she  would.  Indeed  he 
knew  it  as  he  kissed  her  hand  and  bade  her  good-night. 

Richard  Travis  had  ridden  over  to  Westmoreland  that 
Sunday  night,  and  as  he  rode  back,  some  two  miles  away, 
and  within  the  shadows  of  a  dense  clump  of  oaks  which 
bordered  the  road,  he  was  stopped  by  two  dusky  figures. 
They  stood  just  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  and  came 
out  so  suddenly  that  the  spirited  saddle  mare  stopped 
and  attempted  to  wheel  and  bolt.  But  Travis,  con 
trolling  her  with  one  hand  and,  suspecting  robbers,  had 
drawn  his  revolver  with  the  other,  when  one  of  them 
said : 

"  Friends,  don't  shoot." 

"  Give  the  countersign,"  said  Travis  with  ill-con 
cealed  irritation. 

"  Union  League,  sir.      I  am  Silos,  sir." 

Travis  put  his  revolver  back  into  his  overcoat  pocket 
and  quieted  his  mare. 

The  two  men,  one  a  negro  and  the  other  a  mulatto, 


A  QUESTION  BROUGHT  HOME          479 

came  up  to  his  saddle-skirt  and  stood  waiting  respect 
fully. 

"You  should  have   awaited  me  at  The  Gaffs,   Silos." 

"  We  did,  sir,"  said  the  mulatto,  "  but  the  boys  are  all 
out  here  in  the  woods,  and  wo  wanted  to  hold  them  to 
gether.  We  didn't  know  when  you  would  come  home." 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,"  said  Travis  pettishly  — "  only 
you  came  near  catching  one  of  my  bullets  by  mistake.  I 
thought  you  were  Jack  Bracken  and  his  gang." 

The  mulatto  smiled  and  apologized.  He  was  a  bright 
fellow  and  the  barber  of  the  town. 

'*  We  wanted  to  know,  sir,  if  you  were  willing  for  us 
to  do  the  work  to-night,  sir?  " 

"  Why  bother  me  about  it  —  no  need  for  me  to  know, 
Silos,  but  one  thing  I  must  insist  upon.  You  may  whip 
them  —  frighten  them,  but  nothing  else,  mind  you, 
nothing  else." 

"  But  you  are  the  commander  of  the  League  —  we 
wanted  your  consent." 

Travis  bent  low  over  the  saddle  and  talked  earnestly 
to  the  man  a  while.  It  was  evidently  satisfactory  to 
the  other,  for  he  soon  beckoned  his  companion  and 
started  off  into  the  woods. 

"  Have  you  representatives  from  each  camp  present, 
Silos?" 

The  mulatto  turned  and  came  back. 

'  Yes  —  but  the  toughest  we  could  get.  I'll  not  stay 
myself  to  see  it.  I  don't  like  such  work,  sir  —  only 
some  one  has  to  do  it  for  the  cause  —  the  cause  of  free 
dom,  sir." 

"  Of  course  —  why   of  course,"   said   Travis.     "  Old 


480        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Bisco  and  his  kind  are  liable  to  get  all  you  negroes  put 
back  into  slavery  —  if  the  Democrats  succeed  again  as 
they  have  just  done.  Give  them  a  good  scare." 

"  We'll  fix  him  to-night,  boss,"  said  the  black  one, 
grinning  good  naturedly.  Then  he  added  to  himself: 
"  Yes,  I'll  whip  'em  —  to  death." 

"  I  heard  a  good  deal  of  talk  among  the  boys,  to 
night,  sir,"  said  the  mulatto.  "  They  all  want  you  for 
Congress  next  time." 

"Well,  we'll  talk  about  that,  Silos,  later.  I  must 
hurry  on." 

He  started,  then  wheeled  suddenly : 

"  Oh,  say,  Silos  — " 

The  latter  came  back. 

"  Do  your  work  quietly  to-night  —  Just  a  good 
scare  —  If  you  disturb "•  -  he  pointed  to  the  roof  of 
Westmoreland  in  the  distance  showing  above  the  beech 
tops.  "  You  know  how  foolish  they  are  about  old  Bisco 
and  his  wife  — 

"  They'll  never  hear  anything."  He  walked  off,  say 
ing  to  himself :  "  A  nigger  who  is  a  traitor  to  his  race 
ought  to  be  shot,  but  for  fear  of  a  noise  and  disturbin' 
the  ladies  —  I'll  hang  'em  both, —  never  fear." 

Travis  touched  his  mare  with  the  spur  and  galloped 
off. 

Uncle  Bisco  and  his  wife  were  rudely  awakened.  It 
was  nearly  midnight  when  the  door  of  their  old  cabin 
was  broken  open  by  a  dozen  black,  ignorant  negroes, 
who  seized  and  bound  the  old  couple  before  they  could 
cry  out.  Bisco  was  taken  out  into  the  yard  under  a 


A  QUESTION  BROUGHT  HOME         481 

tree,  while  his  wife,  pleading  and  begging  for  her  hus 
band's  life,  was  tied  to  another  tree. 

"  Bisco,"  said  the  leader,  "  we  cum  heah  to  pay  you 
back  fur  de  blood  you  drawed  frum  our  backs  whilst  you 
hilt  de  whip  ob  slabery  an'  oberseed  fur  white  fo'ks. 
An'  fur  ebry  lick  you  giv'  us,  we  gwi'  giv'  you  er  dozen 
on  your  naked  back,  an'  es  fur  dis  ole  witch,"  said  the 
brute,  pointing  to  old  Aunt  Charity,  "  we  got  de  plain 
docyments  on  her  fur  witchin'  Br'er  Moses'  little  gal  — 
de  same  dat  she  mek  hab  fits,  an'  we  gwi'  hang  her  to  a 
lim'." 

The  old  man  drew  himself  up.  In  every  respect  — 
intelligence,  physical  and  moral  bravery  —  he  was  su 
perior  to  the  crowd  around  him.  Raised  with  the  best 
class  of  whites,  he  had  absorbed  many  of  their  virtues, 
while  in  those  around  him  were  many  who  were  but  a 
few  generations  removed  from  the  cowardice  of  darkest 
Africa. 

"  I  nurver  hit  you  a  lick  you  didr't  deserve,  suh,  I 
nurver  had  you  whipped  but  once  an'  dat  wus  for  steal- 
in'  a  horg  which  you  sed  yo'se'f  you  stole.  You  ken 
do  wid  me  es  you  please,"  he  went  on,  "  you  am  menny 
an'  kin  do  it,  an'  I  am  ole  an'  weak.  But  ef  you  hes  got 
enny  soul,  spare  de  po'  ole  'oman  who  ain't  nurver  dun 
nothin'  but  kindness  all  her  life.  De  berry  chile  you 
say  she  witched  hes  bed  'leptis  fits  all  its  life  an'  Cheerity 
ain't  dun  nuffin'  but  take  it  medicine  to  kwore  it.  Don't 
hurt  de  po'  ole  'oman,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Let  'em  do  whut  dey  please  wid  me,  Bisco,"   she 
said :     "  Dey  can't  do  nuffin'  to  dis  po'  ole  body  but  sen' 
de  tired  soul  on  dat  journey  wher  de  buterful  room  is 
31 


482        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

already  fix  fur  it,  es  you  read  dis  berry  night.  But 
spare  de  ole  man,  spare  'im  fur  de  secun'  blessin'  which 
Gord  dun  promised  us,  an'  which  boun'  ter  cum  bekase 
Gord  can't  lie.  O  Lord,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  remem 
ber  thy  po'  ole  servants  dis  night." 

But  her  appeals  were  fruitless.  Already  the  "  witch 
council  "  of  the  blacks  was  being  formed  to  decide  their 
fate.  And  it  was  an  uncanny  scene  that  the  moon 
looked  down  on  that  night,  under  the  big  trees  on  the 
banks  of  the  Tennessee.  They  formed  in  a  circle  around 
the  "  Witch  Finder,"  an  old  negro  whose  head  was  as 
white  as  snow,  and  who  was  so  ignorant  he  could  scarcely 
speak  even  negro  dialect. 

Both  his  father  and  mother  were  imported  from  Afri 
ca,  and  the  former  was  "  Witch  Finder  "  for  his  tribe 
there.  The  negroes  said  the  African  Witch  Finder  had 
imparted  his  secret  only  to  his  son,  and  that  it  had  thus 
been  handed  down  in  one  family  for  many  generations. 

The  old  negro  now  sat  upon  the  ground  in  the  center 
of  the  circle.  He  was  a  small,  bent  up,  wiry-looking 
black,  with  a  physiognomy  closely  resembling  a  dog's, 
which  he  took  pains  to  cultivate  by  drawing  the  plaits  of 
his  hair  down  like  the  ears  of  a  hound,  while  he  shaped 
his  few  straggling  strands  of  beard  into  the  under  jaw  of 
the  same  animal.  Three  big  negroes  had  led  him,  blind 
folded,  into  the  circle,  chanting  a  peculiar  song,  the 
music  of  which  was  weird  and  uncanny.  And  now  as  he 
sat  on  the  ground  the  others  regarded  him  with  the 
greatest  reverence  and  awe.  It  was  in  one  of  the  most 
dismal  portions  of  the  swamp,  a  hundred  yards  or  two 
from  the  road  that  led  to  the  ferry  at  the  river.  Here 


A  QUESTION  BROUGHT  HOME          483 

the  old  people  had  been  brought  from  their  homes  and 
tied  to  this  spot  where  the  witch  council  was  to  be  held. 
Before  seating  himself  the  Witch  Finder  had  drawn 
three  rings  within  a  circle  on  the  ground  with  the  thigh 
bone  of  a  dog.  Then,  unbuttoning  his  red  flannel  shirt, 
he  took  from  his  bosom,  suspended  around  his  neck,  a 
kind  of  purse,  made  from  the  raw-hide  of  a  calf,  with 
white  hair  on  one  side  and  red  on  the  other,  and  from 
this  bag  he  proceeded  to  take  out  things  which  would 
have  given  Shakespeare  ideas  for  his  witch  scene  in  Mac 
beth.  A  little  black  ring,  made  of  the  legs  of  the  black 
spider  and  bound  together  with  black  horse  hair ;  a  black 
thimble-like  cup,  not  much  longer  than  the  cup  of  an 
acorn,  made  of  the  black  switch  of  a  mule  containing 
the  liver  of  a  scorpion.  The  horny  head  and  neck  of 
the  huge  black  beetle,  commonly  known  to  negroes  as 
the  black  Betsy  Bug;  the  rattle  and  button  of  a  rattle 
snake;  the  fang-tooth  of  a  cotton-mouth  moccasin,  the 
left  hind  foot  of  a  frog,  seeds  of  the  stinging  nettle, 
and  pods  of  peculiar  plants,  all  incased  in  a  little  sack 
made  of  a  mole's  hide.  These  were  all  given  sufficient 
charm  by  a  small  round  cotton  yarn,  in  the  center  of 
which  was  a  drop  of  human  blood.  They  were  placed 
on  the  ground  around  him,  but  he  held  the  ball  of  cot 
ton  yarn  in  his  hand,  and  ordered  that  the  child  be 
brought  into  the  ring.  The  poor  thing  was  frightened 
nearly  to  death  at  sight  of  the  Witch  Finder,  and  when 
he  began  slowly  to  unwind  his  ball  of  cotton  thread 
and  chant  his  monotonous  funeral  song,  she  screamed 
in  terror.  At  a  signal  from  the  "  Witch  Finder,"  Aunt 
Charity  was  dragged  into  the  ring,  her  hands  tied  be- 


484        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

hind  her.  The  sight  of  such  brutality  was  too  much 
for  the  child,  and  she  promptly  had  another  fit.  No 
other  evidence  was  needed,  and  the  Witch  Finder  de 
clared  that  Aunt  Charity  was  Queen  of  Witches.  The 
council  retired,  and  in  a  few  minutes  their  decision  was 
made :  Uncle  Bisco  was  to  be  beaten  to  death  with  hick 
ory  flails  and  his  old  wife  hung  to  the  nearest  tree. 
Their  verdict  being  made,  two  stout  negroes  came  for 
ward  to  bind  the  old  man  to  a  tree  with  his  arms  around 
it.  At  sight  of  these  ruffians  the  old  woman  broke  out 
into  triumphant  song: 

"  O  we  mos'  to  de  home  whar  we  all  gwi'  res', 

Cum,  dear  Lord,  cum  soon ! 
An'  take  de  ole  weary  ones  unto  yo'  bres', 

Cum,  dear  Lord,  cum  soon ! 

Fur  we  ole  an'  we  tired  an'  we  hungry  fur  yo'  sight, 
An'  our  lim's  dey  am  weary,  fur  we  fou't  er  good  fight, 
An'  we  longin'  fur  de  Ian'  ob  lub  an'  light  — 

Cum,  dear  Lord,  cum  soon." 

And  it  was  well  that  she  sang  that  song,  for  it  stopped 
three  horsemen  just  as  they  forded  the  creek  and  turned 
their  horses'  heads  into  the  lane  that  led  to  the  cabin. 
One  who  was  tall  and  with  square  shoulders  sat  his  horse 
as  if  born  in  the  saddle.  Above,  his  dark  hair  was 
streaked  with  white,  but  the  face  was  calm  and  sad, 
though  lit  up  now  with  two  keen  and  kindly  eyes  which 
glowed  with  suppressed  excitement.  It  was  the  face  of 
splendid  resolve  arid  noble  purpose,  and  the  horse  he 
rode  was  John  Paul  Jones.  The  other  was  the  village 


A  QUESTION  BROUGHT  HOME          485 

blacksmith.     A  negro  followed  them,  mounted  on  a  raw- 
bone  pony,  and  carrying  his  master's  Enfield  rifle. 

,The  first  horseman  was  just  saying:  "Things  look 
mighty  natural  at  the  old  place,  Eph;  I  wonder  if  the 
old  folks  will  know  us  ?  It  seems  to  me  — " 

He  pulled  up  his  horse  with  a  jerk.  He  heard  sing 
ing  just  over  to  his  left  in  the  wood.  Both  horsemen 
sat  listening: 

O  we  mos'  to  de  do'  ob  our  Father's  home  — 

Lead,  dear  Lord,  lead  on ! 
An'  we'll  nurver  mo'  sorrer  an'  nurver  mo'  roam  — • 

Lead,  dear  Lord,  lead  on ! 

An'  we'll  meet  wid  de  lam's  dat's  gohn  on  befo' 
An'  we  lie  in  de  shade  ob  de  good  shepherd's  do', 
An'  he'll  wipe  away  all  ob  our  tears  as  dey  flow  — 

Lead,  dear  Lord,  lead  on ! 

"  Do  you  know  that  voice,  Eph  ?  "  cried  the  man  in 
front  to  his  body  servant.  "  We  must  hurry  " ;  and  he 
touched  the  splendid  horse  with  the  heel  of  his  riding 
boot. 

But  the  young  negro  had  already  plunged  two  spurs 
into  his  pony's  flanks  and  was  galloping  toward  the 
cabin. 

It  was  all  over  when  the  white  rider  came  up.  Two 
brutes  had  been  knocked  over  with  the  short  heavy  bar 
rel  of  an  Enfield  rifle.  There  was  wild  scattering 
of  others  through  the  wood.  An  old  man  was  clinging 
in  silent  prayer  to  his  son's  knees  and  an  old  woman  was 
clinging  around  his  neck,  and  saying: 


486        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  Praise  God  —  who  nurver  lies  —  it's  little  Ephrum 
—  come  home  ag'in." 

Then  they  looked  up  and  the  old  man  raised  his  hands 
in  a  pitiful  tumult  of  joy  and  fear  and  reverence  as  he 
said: 

"  An'  Marse  Tom,  so  help  me  God  —  a-ridin'  John 
Paul  Jones!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    PEDIGREE    OF    ACHIEVEMENT 

MAN  may  breed  up  all  animals  but  himself.  Strive 
as  he  may,  the  laws  of  heredity  are  hidden. 
"  Like  produces  like  or  the  likeness  of  an  an 
cestor  "  is  the  unalterable  law  of  the  lower  animal.  Not 
so  with  man  —  he  is  a  strange  anomaly.  Breed  him 
up  —  up  —  and  then  from  his  high  breeding  will  come 
reversion.  From  pedigrees  and  plumed  hats  and  ruf 
fled  shirts  come  not  men,  but  pygmies  —  things  which 
in  the  real  fight  of  life  are  but  mice  to  the  eagles  which 
have  come  up  from  the  soil  with  the  grit  of  it  in  their 
craws  and  the  strength  of  it  in  their  talons. 

We  stop  in  wonder  —  balked.  Then  we  see  that  we 
cannot  breed  men  —  they  are  born ;  not  in  castles,  but 
in  cabins. 

And  why  in  cabins?  For  therein  must  be  the  solu 
tion.  And  the  solution  is  plain:  It  is  work  —  work 
that  does  it. 

We  cannot  breed  men  unless  work  —  achievement  — 
goes  with  it. 

From  the  loins  of  great  horses  come  greater  horses; 
for  the  pedigree  of  work  —  achievement  —  is  there. 
Unlike  man,  the  race-horse  is  kept  from  degeneracy  by 
work.  Each  colt  that  comes  must  add  achievement  to 

487 


488        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

pedigree  when  he  faces  the  starter,  or  he  goes  to  the 
shambles  or  the  surgeon. 

Why  may  not  man  learn  this  simple  lesson  —  the 
lesson  of  work  —  of  pedigree,  but  the  pedigree  of 
achievement? 

The  son  who  would  surpass  his  father  must  do  more 
than  his  father  did.  Two  generations  of  idleness  will 
beget  nonentities,  and  three,  degenerates. 

The  preacher,  the  philosopher,  the  poet,  the  ruler  — 
it  matters  not  what  his  name  —  he  who  first  solves  the 
problem  of  how  to  keep  mankind  achieving  will  solve  the 
problem  of  humanity. 

And  now  to  Helen  Conway  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
this  simple  thing  was  happening  —  she  was  working  — 
she  was  earning  —  she  was  supporting  herself  and  Lily 
and  her  father.  Not  only  that,  but  gradually  she  was 
learning  to  know  what  the  love  of  one  like  Clay  meant 
• — •  unselfish,  devoted,  true. 

If  to  every  tempted  woman  in  the  world  could  be 
given  work,  and  to  work  achievement,  and  to  achieve 
ment  independence,  there  would  be  few  fallen  ones. 

All  the  next  week  Helen  went  to  the  mill  early  —  she 
wanted  to  go.  She  wanted  to  earn  more  money  and 
keep  Lily  out  of  the  mill.  And  she  went  with  a 
light  heart,  because  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  since 
she  could  remember,  her  father  was  sober.  Helen's 
earnings  changed  even  him.  There  was  something  so 
noble  in  her  efforts  that  it  uplifted  even  the  drunkard. 
In  mingled  shame  and  pride  he  thought  it  out:  Sup 
ported  by  his  daughter  —  in  a  mill  and  such  a  daugh 
ter!  He  arose  from  it  all  white-lipped  with  resolve: 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  ACHIEVEMENT    489 

"  /  will  be  a  Conway  again!  "  He  said  it  over  and  over. 
He  swore  it. 

It  is  true  he  was  not  entirely  free  from  that  sicken 
ing,  sour,  accursed  smell  with  which  she  had  asso 
ciated  him  all  her  life.  But  that  he  was  himself,  that 
he  was  making  an  earnest  effort,  she  knew  by  his  neatly 
brushed  clothes,  his  clean  linen,  his  freshly  shaved  face, 
his  whole  attire  which  betokened  the  former  gentleman. 

"  How  handsome  he  must  have  been  when  he  was  once 
a  Conway !  "  thought  Helen. 

He  kissed  his  daughters  at  the  breakfast  table.  He 
chatted  with  them,  and  though  he  said  nothing  about 
it,  even  Lily  knew  that  he  had  resolved  to  reform. 

After  breakfast  Helen  left  him,  with  Lily  sitting  on 
her  father's  lap,  her  face  bright  with  the  sunshine 
of  it: 

"  If  papa  would  always  be  like  this  " —  and  she  pat 
ted  his  cheek. 

Conway  started.  The  very  intonation  of  her  voice, 
her  gesture,  was  of  the  long  dead  mother. 

Tears  came  to  his  eyes.  He  kissed  her :  "  Never 
again,  little  daughter,  will  I  take  another  drop." 

She  looked  at  him  seriously :  "  Say  with  God's 
help  -  '  she  said  simply.  "  Mammy  Maria  said  it 
won't  count  unless  you  say  that." 

Conway  smiled.      "  I  will  do  it  my  own  self." 

But  Lily  only  shook  her  head  in  a  motherly,  scolding 
way. 

"  With  God's  help,  then,"  he  said. 

Never  was  an  Autumn  morning  more  beautiful  to 
Helen  as  she  walked  across  the  fields  to  the  mill.  She 


490        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

had  learned  a  nearer  way,  one  which  lay  across  hill  and 
field.  The  path  ran  through  farms,  chiefly  The  Gaffs, 
and  cut  across  the  hills  and  meadow  land.  Through 
little  dells,  amid  fragrant  groves  of  sweet  gum  and  ma 
ples,  their  beautiful  many-colored  leaves  now  scattered 
in  rich  profusion  around.  Then  down  little  hollows 
where  the  brooks  sputtered  and  frothed  and  foamed 
along,  the  sun  all  the  time  darting  in  and  out,  as  the 
waters  ran  first  in  sunshine  and  then  in  shadow.  And 
above,  the  winds  were  so  still,  that  the  jumping  of  the 
squirrel  in  the  hickories  made  the  only  noise  among  the 
leaves  which  still  clung  to  the  boughs. 

All  so  beautiful,  and  never  had  Helen  been  so  happy. 

She  was  earning  a  living  —  she  was  saving  Lily  from 
the  mill  and  her  father  from  temptation. 

Her  path  wound  along  ,°,n  old  field  and  plunged  into 
scrub  cedar  and  glady  rocks.  A  covey  of  quail  sprang 
up  before  her  and  she  screamed,  frightened  at  the  sud 
den  thunder  of  their  wings. 

Then  the  path  ran  through  a  sedge  field,  white  with 
the  tall  silvered  panicled-leaves  of  the  life-everlasting. 

Beyond  her  she  saw  the  smoke-stack  of  the  mill,  and  a 
short  cut  through  a  meadow  of  The  Gaffs  would  soon 
tpke  her  there. 

She  failed  to  see  a  warning  on  the  fence  which  said: 
Keep  out  —  Danger. 

Through  the  bars  she  went,  intent  only  on  soon  reach- 
irg  the  mill  beyond  and  glorying  in  the  strong  rich 
sjnell  of  autumn  in  leaf  and  grass  and  air. 

"  What  a  beautiful  horse  that  is  in  the  pasture,"  she 
ttought,  and  then  her  attention  went  to  a  meadow  lark 


THE  PEDIGREE  OF  ACHIEVEMENT 

flushed  and  exultant.  She  heard  shouts,  and  now  — 
why  was  Jim,  the  stable  boy,  running  toward  her  so  fast, 
carrying  a  pitchfork  in  his  hands  and  shouting :  "  Whoa 
-  there,  Antar  —  Antar, —  you,  sir !  " 

And  the  horse!  One  look  was  enough.  With  ears 
laid  backs  and  mouth  wide  open,  with  eyes  blazing  with 
the  fire  of  fury  he  was  plunging  straight  at  her. 

Helpless,  she  turned  in  sickening  doubt,  to  feel  that 
her  limbs  were  limp  in  the  agony  of  fear.  She  heard 
the  thunder  of  the  man-eating  stallion's  hoofs  just  be 
hind  her  and  she  butted  blindly,  as  she  sank  down,  into 
some  one  who  held  bravely  her  hand  as  she  fell,  and  the 
next  instant  she  heard  a  thundering  report  and  smelt 
a  foul  blast  of  gunpowder.  She  looked  up  in  time  to 
see  the  great  horse  pitch  back  on  his  haunches,  rear, 
quiver  a  moment  and  strike  desperately  at  the  air  with 
his  front  feet  and  fall  almost  upon  her. 

When  she  revived,  the  stable  boy  stood  near  by  the 
dead  stallion,  pale  with  fright  and  wonder.  A  half- 
grown  boy  stood  by  her,  holding  her  hand. 

;<  You  are  all  right  now,"  he  said  quietly  as  he  helped 
her  to  arise.  In  his  right  hand  he  held  a  pistol  and 
the  foul  smoke  still  oozed  up  from  the  nipple  where  the 
exploded  cap  lay  shattered,  under  the  hammer. 

He  was  perfectly  cool  —  even  haughtily  so.  He 
scarcely  looked  at  Helen  nor  at  Jim,  who  kept  saying 
nervously : 

"  You've  killed  him  —  you've  killed  him  —  what  will 
Mr.  Travis  say?" 

The  boy  laughed  an  ironical  laugh.  Then  he  walked 
up  and  examined  the  shot  he  had  made.  Squarely  be- 


492        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

tween  the  great  eyes  the  ball  had  gone,  and  scarcely  had 
the  glaring,  frenzied  eye-balls  of  the  man-eater  been 
fixed  in  the  rigid  stare  of  death.  He  put  his  fingers  on 
it,  and  turning,  said : 

"  A  good  shot,  running  —  and  at  twenty  paces !  " 

Then  he  stood  up  proudly,  and  his  blue  eyes  flashed 
defiance  as  he  said: 

"  And  what  will  Mr.  Travis  say?  Well,  tell  him  first 
of  all  that  this  man-eating  stallion  of  his  caught  the 
bullet  I  had  intended  for  his  woman-eating  master  — 
this  being  my  birth-day.  And  tell  him,  if  he  asks  you 
who  I  am,  that  last  week  I  was  James  Adams,  but  now 
I  am  James  Travis.  He  will  "understand." 

He  came  over  to  Helen  gallantly  —  his  blue  eyes  shin 
ing  through  a  smile  which  now  lurked  in  them : 

"  This  is  Miss  Conway,  isn't  it?  I  will  see  you  out 
of  this." 

Then,  taking  her  hand  as  if  she  had  been  his  big 
sister,  he  led  her  along  the  path  to  the  road  and  to 
safety. 


CHAPTER  X 

MARRIED    IN    GOD*S    SIGHT 

NIGHT  -  -  for  night  and  death,  are  they  not  one  ? 
A  farm  cabin  in  a  little  valley  beyond  the 
mountain.  An  Indian  Summer  night  in  No 
vember,  but  a  little  fire  is  pleasant,  throwing  its  cheer 
ful  light  on  a  room  rough  from  puncheon  floor  to  axe- 
hewn  rafters,  but  cleanly-tidy  in  its  very  roughness. 
It  looked  sinewy,  strong,  honest,  good-natured.  There 
was  roughness,  but  it  was  the  roughness  of  strength. 
Knots  of  character  told  of  the  suffering,  struggles  and 
privations  of  the  sturdy  trees  in  the  forest,  of  seams 
twisted  by  the  tempests;  rifts  from  the  mountain  rocks; 
fibre,  steel-chilled  by  the  terrible,  silent  cold  of  winter 
stars. 

And  now  plank  and  beam  and  rafter  and  roof  made 
into  a  home,  humble  and  honest,  and  giving  it  all  back 
again  uncfer  the  warm  light  of  the  hearth-stone. 

On  a  bed,  white  and  beautifully  clean,  lay  a  fragile 
creature,  terribly  white  herself,  save  where  red  live  coals 
gleamed  in  her  cheeks  beneath  the  bright,  blazing,  fever- 
fire  burning  in  her  eyes  above. 

She  coughed  and  smiled  and  lay  still,  smiling. 

She  smiled  because  a  little  one  —  a  tiny,  sickly  little 
girl  —  had  come  up  to  the  bed  and  patted  her  cheek  and 
said :  "  Little  mother  —  little  mother !  " 

493 


494        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

There  were  four  other  children  in  the  room,  and  they 
sat  around  in  all  the  solemn,  awe-stricken  sorrow  of 
death,  seen  for  the  first  time. 

Then  a  man  in  an  invalid  chair,  helpless  and  with  a 
broken  spine,  spoke,  as  if  thinking  aloud: 

"  She's  all  the  mother  the  little  'uns  ever  had,  Bishop 
• — 'pears  like  it's  cruel  for  God  to  take  her  from  them." 

"  God's  cruelty  is  our  crown,"  said  the  old  man  — 
"  we'll  understand  it  by  and  by." 

Then  the  beautiful  woman  who  had  come  over  the 
mountain  arose  from  the  seat  by  the  fireside,  and  came 
to  the  bed.  She  took  the  little  one  in  her  arms  and 
petted  and  soothed  her. 

The  child  looked  at  her  timidly  in  childish  astonish 
ment.  She  was  not  used  to  such  a  beautiful  woman 
holding  her  —  so  proud  and  fine  —  from  a  world  that 
she  knew  was  not  her  world. 

"  May  I  give  you  some  nourishment  now,  Maggie?  " 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"  No  —  no  —  Miss  Alice,"  and  then  she  smiled  so 
brightly  and  cheerfully  that  the  little  one  in  Alice  West- 
more's  arms  clapped  her  hands  and  laughed :  "  Little 
mother  —  be  up,  well,  to-morrow." 

Little  Mother  turned  her  eyes  on  the  child  quickly, 
smiled  and  nodded  approval.     But  there  were  tears  — 
tears  which  the  little  one  did  not  understand. 

An  hour  went  by  —  the  wind  had  ceased,  and  with  it 
the  rain.  The  children  were  asleep  in  bed;  the  father 
in  his  chair. 

A  cold  sweat  had  broken  out  on  the  dying  girl's  fore 
head  and  she  breathed  with  a  terrible  effort.  And  in  it 


MARRIED  IN  GOD'S  SIGHT  495 

all  the  two  watchers  beside  the  bed  saw  that  there  was 
an  agony  there  but  not  the  fear  of  death.  She  kept 
trying  to  bite  her  nails  nervously  and  saying: 

".  There  is  only  -  ...  one  thing  —  ... 
one  .1  .  thing.  .  .  ." 

"  Tell  me,  Maggie,"  said  the  old  man,  bending  low 
and  soothing  her  forehead  with  his  hands,  "  tell  us 
what's  pesterin'  you  —  maybe  it  hadn't  oughter  be. 
You  mustn't  worry  now  —  God'll  make  everything  right 
-  to  them  that  loves  him  even  to  the  happy  death. 
You'll  die  happy  an'  be  happy  with  him  forever.  The 
little  'uns  an'  the  father,  you  know  they're  fixed  here  — 
in  this  nice  home  an'  the  farm  —  so  don't  worry." 

"  That's  it !  ...  Oh,  that's  it !  .  .  .  I  got 
it  that  way  -  ...  all  for  them  .  .  .  but  it's 
that  that  hurts  now.  .  .  ." 

He  bent  down  over  her :  "  Tell  us,  child  —  me  an' 
Miss  Alice  —  tell  us  what's  pesterin'  you.  You  mustn't 
die  this  way  —  you  who've  got  such  a  right  to  be 
happy." 

The  hectic  spark  burned  to  white  heat  in  her  cheek. 
She  bit  her  nails,  she  picked  at  the  cover,  she  looked 
toward  the  bed  and  asked  feebly :  "  Are  they  asleep  ? 
Can  I  talk  to  you  two?" 

The  old  man  nodded.     Alice  soothed  her  brow. 

Then  she  beckoned  to  the  old  preacher,  who  knelt 
by  her  side,  and  he  put  his  arms  around  her  neck  and 
raised  her  on  the  pillow.  And  his  ear  was  close  to  her 
lips,  for  she  could  scarcely  talk,  and  Alice  Westmore 
knelt  and  listened,  too.  She  listened,  but  with  a  grip 
ing,  strained  heartache, —  listened  to  a  dying  confession 


496        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

from  the  pale  lips,  and  the  truth  for  the  first  time  came 
to  Alice  Westmore,  and  kneeling,  she  could  not  rise,  but 
bent  again  her  head  and  heard  the  pitiful,  dying  con 
fession.  As  she  listened  to  the  broken,  gasping  words, 
heard  the  heart-breaking  secret  come  out  of  the  ruins 
of  its  wrecked  home,  her  love,  her  temptation,  her  igno 
rance  in  wondering  if  she  were  really  married  by  the 
laws  of  love,  and  then  the  great  martyrdom  of  it  all  — 
giving  her  life,  her  all,  that  the  others  might  live  —  a 
terrible  tightening  gathered  around  Alice  Westmore's 
heart,  her  head  fell  with  the  flooding  tears  and  she  knelt 
sobbing,  her  bloodless  fingers  clutching  the  bed  of  the 
dying  girl. 

"  Don't  cry,"  said  Maggie.     "  I  should  be  the  one 

to   weep,     .      .      .     only   I    am   so  happy     ...     to 

think     ...     I  am  loved  by  the  noblest,  best,  of  men, 

.     an'  I  love  him  so,     ...     only  he  ain't  here ; 

.     .     but  I  wouldn't  have  him  see  me  die.     Now  — 

now     .      .      .     what  I  want  to  know,  Bishop,     .      .     ." 

she  tried  to  rise.     She  seemed  to  be  passing  away.     The 

old  man  caught  her  and  held  her  in  his  arms. 

Her  eyes  opened :  "I  —  is  — "  she  went  on,  in  the 
agony  of  it  all  with  the  same  breath,  "am  .  .  . 
am  I  married  ...  in  God's  sight  ...  as 
well  as  his  — 

The  old  man  held  her  tenderly  as  if  she  were  a  child. 
He  smiled  calmly,  sweetly,  into  her  eyes  as  he  said : 

4  You  believed  it  an'  you  loved  only  him,  Maggie  — 
poor  chile !  " 

"  Oh,  yes  —  yes  —  '  she  smiled,  "  an'  now  —  even 
now  I  love  him  up  —  right  up  —  as  you  see  ... 


MARRIED  IN  GOD'S  SIGHT  49T 

to  the  door,     .     ,»     .     to  the  shadow,     ...     to  the 
valley  of  the  shadow.      .     .     ." 

"  And  it  went  for  these,  for  these  " —  he  said  looking 
around  at  the  room. 

"  For  them  —  my  little  ones  —  they  had  no  mother, 
you  kno' — an'  Daddy's  back.  Oh,  I  didn't  mind  the 
work,  .  .  .  the  mill  that  has  killed  .  .  . 
killed  me,  .  .  .  but,  .  .  .  but  was  I" — her 
voice  rose  to  a  shrill  cry  of  agony  — "  am  I  married  in 
God's  sight?" 

Alice  quivered  in  the  beauty  of  the  answer  which  came 
back  from  the  old  man's  lips : 

"  As  sure  as  God  lives,  you  were  —  there  now  — 
sleep  and  rest ;  it  is  all  right,  child." 

Then  a  sweet  calmness  settled  over  her  face,  and  with 
it  a  smile  of  exquisite  happiness. 

She  fell  back  on  her  pillow :  "  In  God's  sight 
married     .     .      .     married      .       .       .       my  —      Oh,    I 
have  never  said  it  before     .     «,     .     but  now, 
can't  I?" 

The  Bishop  nodded,  smiling. 

"  My   husband,      .      .      .      my   husband, 
dear  heart,     .      .      .     Good-bye.     .     .     ." 

She  tried  to  reach  under  her  pillow  to  draw  out  some 
thing,  and  then  she  smiled  and  died. 

When  Alice  Westmore  dressed  her  for  burial  an  hour 
afterwards,  her  heart  was  shaken  with  a  bitterness  it 
had  never  known  before  —  a  bitterness  which  in  a  man 
would  have  been  a  vengeance.  For  there  was  the  smile 
still  on  the  dead  face,  carried  into  the  presence  of  God. 


498        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Under  the  dead  girl's  pillow  lay  the  picture  of  Rich 
ard  Travis. 

The  next  day  Alice  sent  the  picture  to  Richard  Tra 
vis,  and  with  it  a  note. 

"  It  is  your's"  she  wrote  calmly,  terribly  calm  — 
"  from  the  girl  who  died  believing  she  was  your  wife. 
1  am  helping  bury  her  to-day.  And  you  need  not  come 
to  Westmoreland  to-morrow  night,  nor  next  week,  nor 
ever  again." 

And  Richard  Travis,  when  he  read  it,  turned  white  to 
his  hard,  bitter,  cruel  lips,  the  first  time  in  all  his  life. 

For  he  knew  that  now  he  had  no  more  chance  to  recall 
the  living  than  he  had  to  recall  the  dead. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  QUEEN  IS  DEAD LONG  LIVE  THE  QUEEN 

ALL   that  week   at  the  mill,   Richard   Travis   had 
been  making  preparations  for  his  trip  to  Bos 
ton.     Regularly  twice,  and  often  three  times  a 
year,  he  had  made  the  same  journey,  where  his  report 
to  the  directors  was  received  a-d  discussed.     After  that, 
there  were  always  two  weeks  of  theatres,  operas,  wine- 
suppers  and  dissipations  of  other  kinds  —  though  never 
of  the  grossest  sort  —  for  even  in  sin  there   is  refine 
ment,  and  Richard  Travis  was  by   instinct  and   inheri 
tance  refined. 

He  was  not  conscious  —  and  who  of  his  class  ever 
are?  —  of  the  effects  of  the  life  he  was  leading  —  the 
tightening  of  this  chain  of  immoral  habits,  the  searing 
of  what  conscience  he  had,  the  freezing  of  all  that  was 
generous  and  good  within  him. 

Once  his  nature  had  been  as  a  lake  in  midsummer, 
its  surface  shimmering  in  the  sunlight,  reflecting  some 
thing  of  the  beauty  that  came  to  it.  Now,  cold,  sordid, 
callous,  it  lay  incased  in  winter  ice  and  neither  could 
the  sunlight  go  in  nor  its  reflection  go  out.  It  slept 
on  in  coarse  opaqueness,  covered  with  an  impenetrable 
crust  which  he  himself  did  not  understand. 

"  But,"  said  the  old  Bishop  more  than  once,  "  God 
can  touch  him  and  he  will  thaw  like  a  spring  day.  There 

499 


500         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

is  somethin'  great  in  Richard  Travis  if  he  can  only  be 
touched." 

But  vice  cannot  reason.  Immorality  cannot  deduce. 
Only  the  moral  ponders  deeply  and  knows  both  the  prem 
ises  and  the  conclusions,  because  only  the  moral  thinks. 

Vice,  like  the  poisonous  talons  of  a  bird  of  prey,  while 
it  buries  its  nails  in  the  flesh  of  its  victim,  carries  also 
the  narcotic  which  soothes  as  it  kills. 

And  Richard  Travis  had  arrived  at  this  stage.  At 
first  it  had  been  with  him  any  woman,  so  there  was  a 
romance  —  and  hence  Maggie.  But  he  had  tired  of 
these,  and  now  it  was  the  woman  beautiful  as  Helen,  or 
the  woman  pure  and  lovely  as  Alice  Westmore. 

What  a  tribute  to  purity,  that  impurity  worships  it  the 
more  as  itself  sinks  lower  in  the  slime  of  things.  It  is 
the  poignancy  of  the  meteorite,  which,  falling  from  a 
star,  hisses  out  its  life  in  the  mud. 

The  woman  pure  —  Alice  —  the  very  thought  of  her 
sent  him  farther  into  the  mud,  knowing  she  could  not 
be  his.  She  alone  whom  he  had  wanted  to  wed  all  his 
life,  the  goal  of  his  love's  ambition,  the  one  woman  in 
the  world  he  had  never  doubted  would  one  day  be  his 
wife. 

Her  note  to  him  — "  Never  .  .  .  never  .  .  . 
again"- -he  kept  reading  it  over,  stunned,  and  pale, 
with  the  truth  of  it.  In  his  blindness  it  had  never  oc 
curred  to  him  that  Alice  Westmore  and  Maggie  would 
ever  meet.  In  his  blindness  —  for  Wrong,  daring  as  a 
snake,  which,  however  alert  and  far-seeing  it  may  be  in 
the  hey-dey  of  its  spring,  sees  less  clearly  as  the  Sum 
mer  advances,  until,  in  the  Aiiffusl-  of  its  infamy,  it 


THE  QUEEN  IS  DEAD  501 

ceases  to  see  altogether  and  becomes  an  easy  victim  for 
all  things  with  hoofs. 

Then,  the  poignant  reawakening.  Now  he  lay  in  the 
mud  and  above  him  still  shone  the  star. 

The  star  —  his  star !  And  how  it  hurt  him !  It  was 
the  breaking  of  a  link  in  the  chain  of  his  life. 

Twice  had  he  written  to  her.  But  each  time  his  notes 
came  back  unopened.  Twice  had  he  gone  to  Westmore 
land  to  see  her.  Mrs.  Westmore  met  him  at  the  door, 
cordial,  sympathetic,  but  with  a  nervous  jerk  in  the  lit 
tle  metallic  laugh.  His  first  glance  at  her  told  him  she 
knew  everything  —  and  yet,  knew  nothing.  Alice  was 
locked  in  her  room  and  would  not  see  him. 

"  But,  oh,  Richard,"  and  again  she  laughed  her  lit 
tle  insincere,  unstable,  society  laugh,  beginning  with 
brave  frankness  in  one  corner  of  her  mouth  and  ending 
in  a  hypocritical  wave  of  forgetfulness  before  it  had 
time  to  finish  the  circle,  but  fluttering  out  into  a  cynical 
twitching  of  a  thing  which  might  have  been  a  smile  or 
a  sneer  — 

*  True  love  —  you  know  —  dear  Richard  —  you 
must  remember  the  old  saying." 

She  pressed  his  hand  sympathetically.  The  mouth 
said  nothing,  but  the  hand  said  plainly:  "Do  not 
despair  —  I  am  working  for  a  home  at  The  Gaffs." 

He  pitied  her,  for  there  was  misery  in  her  eyes  and 
in  her  laugh  and  in  the  very  touch  of  her  hand.  Misery 
and  insincerity,  and  that  terrible  mental  state  when 
weakness  is  roped  up  between  the  two  and  knows,  for 
once  in  its  life,  that  it  has  no  strength  at  all. 

And  she  pitied  him,  for  never  before  on  any  human 


502        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

face  had  she  seen  the  terrible  irony  of  agony.  Agony 
she  had  often  seen  —  but  not  this  irony  of  it  —  this 
agony  that  saw  all  its  life's  happiness  blasted  and  knew 
it  deserved  it. 

Richard  Travis,  when  he  left  Westmoreland,  knew 
that  he  left  it  forever. 

"  The  Queen  is  dead  —  long  live  the  Queen,"  he  said 
bitterly. 

And  then  there  happened  what  always  happens  to  the 
thing  in  the  mud  —  he  sank  deeper  —  desperately 
deeper. 

Now  —  now  he  would  have  Helen  Conway.  He  would 
have  her  and  own  her,  body  and  soul.  He  would  take 
her  away  —  as  he  had  planned,  and  keep  her  away. 
That  was  easy,  too  —  too  far  away  for  the  whisper  of  it 
ever  to  come  back.  If  he  failed  in  that  he  would  marry 
her.  She  was  beautiful  —  and  with  a  little  more  age  and 
education  she  would  grace  The  Gaffs.  So  he  might 
marry  her  and  set  her  up,  a  queen  over  their  heads. 

This  was  his  determination  when  he  went  to  the  mill 
the  first  of  the  week.  All  the  week  he  watched  her, 
talked  with  her,  was  pleasant,  gallant  and  agreeable. 
But  he  soon  saw  that  Helen  was  not  the  same.  There 
was  not  the  dull  wistful  resignation  in  her  look,  and  de 
spair  had  given  way  to  a  cheerfulness  he  could  not  under 
stand.  There  was  a  brightness  in  her  eyes  which  made 
her  more  beautiful. 

The  unconscious  grip  which  the  shamelessness  of  it 
all  had  over  him  was  evidenced  in  what  he  did.  He  con 
fided  his  plans  to  Jud  Carpenter,  and  set  him  to  work 
to  discover  the  cause. 


THE  QUEEN  IS  DEAD  503 

"  See  what's  wrong,"  he  said  significantly.  "  I  am 
going  to  take  that  girl  North  with  me,  and  away  from 
here.  After  that  it  is  no  affair  of  yours." 

"  Anything  wrong?  "  He  had  reached  the  point  of 
his  moral  degradation  when  right  for  Helen  meant  wrong 
for  him. 

Jud,  with  a  characteristic  shrewdness,  put  his  finger 
quickly  on  the  spot. 

Edward  Conway  was  sober.      Clay  saw  her  daily. 

"  But  jes'  wait  till  I  see  him  ag'in  —  down  there.  I'll 
make  him  drunk  enough.  Then  you'll  see  a  change  in 
the  Queen  —  hey  ?  " 

And  he  laughed  knowingly.  With  a  little  more  bit 
terness  she  would  go  to  the  end  of  the  world  with  him. 

It  was  that  day  he  held  her  hands  in  the  old  familiar 
way,  but  when  he  would  kiss  her  at  the  gate  she  still  fled, 
crimson,  away. 

The  next  morning  Clay  Westmore  walked  with  her  to 
the  mill,  and  Travis  lilted  his  eyebrows  haughtily : 

"  If  anything  of  that  kind  happens,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  "  nothing  can  save  me." 

He  watched  her  closely  —  how  beautiful  she  looked 
that  day  —  how  regally  beautiful !  She  had  come 
wearing  the  blue  silk  gown,  with  the  lace  and  beads 
which  had  been  her  mother's.  In  sheer  delight  Travis 
kept  slipping  to  the  drawing-in  room  door  to  watch  her 
work.  Her  posture,  beautifully  Greek,  before  the  ma 
chine,  so  natural  that  it  looked  not  unlike  a  harp  in  her 
hand ;  her  half-bent  head  and  graceful  neck,  the  flushed 
face  and  eyes,  the  whole  picture  was  like  a  Titian,  rich 
in  color  and  life. 


504        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

And  she  saw  him  and  looked  up  smiling. 

It  was  not  the  smile  of  happiness.  He  did  not  know 
it  because,  being  blind,  he  could  not  know.  It  was  the 
happiness  of  work  —  achievement. 

He  came  in  smiling.  "  Why  are  you  so  much  hap 
pier  than  last  week  ?  " 

"  Would  you  really  like  to  know  ?  "  she  said,  looking 
him  frankly  in  the  eyes. 

He  touched  her  hair  playfully.  She  moved  her  head 
and  shook  it  warningly. 

"  It  is  because  I  am  at  work  and  father  is  trying  so 
hard  to  reform." 

"  I  thought  maybe  it  was  because  you  had  found  out 
how  much  I  love  you." 

It  was  his  old,  stereotyped,  brazen  way,  but  she  did 
not  know  it  and  blushed  prettily. 

"You  are  kind,  Mr.  Travis,  but  —  but  that  mustn't 
be  thought  of.  Please,  but  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk 
that  way." 

"Why,  it  is  true,  my  queen  —  of  The  Gaffs?"  he 
said  smiling. 

She  began  to  work  again. 

He  came  over  to  her  and  bent  low: 

"  You  know  I  am  to  take  you  Monday  night ??i — 

Her  hands  flew  very  rapidly  —  her  cheeks  mantled 
into  a  rich  glow.  One  of  the  threads  snapped.  She 
stopped,  confused. 

Travis  glanced  around.  No  one  was  near.  He  bent 
and  kissed  her  hair: 

"  My  queen,"  he  whispered,  "  my  beautiful  queen.*5 

Then  he  walked  quickly  out.     He  went  to  his  office* 


THE  QUEEN  IS  DEAD  505 

but  he  still  saw  the  beautiful  picture.  It  thrilled  him 
and  then  there  swept  up  over  him  another  picture,  and  he 
cried  savagely  to  himself: 

"  I'll  make  her  sorry.  She  shall  bow  to  that  fine 
thing  yet  —  my  queen." 

Nor  would  it  leave  him  that  day,  and  into  the  night 
he  dreamed  of  her,  and  it  was  the  same  Titian  picture 
in  a  background  of  red  sunset.  And  her  machine  was 
a  harp  she  was  playing.  He  wakened  and  smiled : 

"Am  I  falling  in  love  with  that  girl?  That  will 
spoil  it  all." 

He  watched  her  closely  the  next  day,  for  it  puzzled 
him  to  know  why  she  had  changed  so  rapidly  in  her 
manner  toward  him.  He  had  ridden  to  Millwood  to 
bring  her  to  the  mill,  himself;  and  he  had  some  exquisite 
roses  for  her  —  clipped  in  the  hothouse  by  his  own 
hands.  It  was  with  an  unmistakable  twitch  of  jealousy 
that  he  learned  that  Clay  Westmore  had  already  come 
by  and  gone  with  her. 

"  I  know  what  it  is  now,"  he  said  to  Jud  Carpenter 
at  the  mill  that  morning ;  "  she  is  half  in  love  with  that 
slow,  studious  fellow." 

Jud  laughed :  "  Say,  excuse  me,  sah  —  but  hanged 
if  you  ain't  got  all  the  symptoms,  y'self,  boss?  " 

Travis  flushed: 

"  Oh,  when  I  start  out  to  do  a  thing  I  want  to  do 
it  —  and  I'm  going  to  take  her  with  me,  or  die  trying." 

Jud  laughed  again :  "  Leave  it  to  me  —  I'll  fix  the 
goggle-eyed  fellow." 

That  night  when  the  door  bell  rang  at  Westmoreland, 
Jud  Carpenter  was  ushered  into  Clay's  workshop.  He 


506        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

sat  down  and  looked  through  his  shaggy  eyebrows  at  the 
lint  and  dust  and  specimens  of  ore.  Then  he  spat  on 
the  floor  disgustedly. 

"  Sorry  to  disturb  you,  but  be  you  a  surveyor  also?  " 

The  big  bowed  glasses  looked  at  him  quietly  and  nod 
ded  affirmatively. 

"  Wai,  then,"  went  on  Jud,  "  I  come  to  git  you  to  do 
a  job  of  surveying  for  the  mill.  It's  a  lot  of  timber 
land  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountain  —  some  twenty 
miles  off.  The  Company's  bought  five  thousand  acres 
of  wood  and  they  want  it  surveyed.  What'll  you 
charge  ?  " 

Clay  thought  a  moment:  "Going  and  coming,  on 
horse-back  —  it  will  take  me  a  week,"  said  Clay 
thoughtfully.  "  I  shall  charge  a  hundred  dollars." 

"  An'  will  you  go  right  away  —  to-morrow  morn- 
in'?" 

Clay  nodded. 

"Here's  fifty  of  it,"  said  Jud — "the  Company  is 
in  a  hurry.  We  want  the  survey  by  this  day  week. 
Let  me  see,  this  is  Sat'dy  —  I'll  come  next  Sat'd}^ 
night." 

Clay's  face  flushed.  Never  before  had  he  made  a 
hundred  dollars  in  a  week. 

"  I'll  go  at  once." 

"  To-morrow  at  daylight?  "  asked  Jud,  rising. 

Clay  looked  at  him  curiously.  There  was  something 
in  the  tone  of  the  man  that  struck  him  as  peculiar,  but 
Jud  went  on  in  an  easy  way. 

"  You  see  we  must  have  it  quick.  All  our  winter 
wood  to  run  the  mill  is  there  an'  we  can't  start  into 


THE  QUEEN  IS  DEAD  507 

cordin'  till  it's  surveyed  an'  the  deed's  passed.  Sorry  to 
hurry  you  " 

Clay  promised  to  start  at  daylight  and  Jud  left. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  late.  He  would  like 
to  tell  Helen  about  it  —  he  said  aloud:  "Making  a 
hundred  dollars  a  week.  If  I  could  only  keep  up  that 
-  I'd  —  I'd  — " 

He  blushed.  And  then  he  turned  quietly  and  went 
to  bed.  And  that  was  why  Helen  wondered  the  next 
day  and  the  next,  and  all  the  next  week  why  she  did  not 
see  Clay,  why  he  did  not  come,  nor  write,  nor  send  her  a 
message.  And  wondering  the  pang  of  it  went  into  her 
hardening  heart. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN    THYSELF    THERE    IS    WEAKNESS 

IT  was  the  middle  of  Saturday  afternoon,  and  all  the 
week  Edward  Conway  had  fought  against  the  ter 
rible  thirst  which  was  in  him.  Not  since  Monday 
morning  had  he  touched  whiskey  at  all,  and  now  he 
walked  the  streets  of  the  little  town  saying  over  and  over 
to  himself:  "  I  am  a  Conway  again." 

He  had  come  to  town  to  see  Jud  Carpenter  about  the 
house  which  had  been  promised  him  —  for  he  could  not 
expect  to  hold  Millwood  much  longer.  With  his  sober 
ness  some  of  his  old  dignity  and  manhood  returned,  and 
when  Carpenter  saw  him,  the  Whipper-in  knew  instinct 
ively  what  had  happened. 

He  watched  Edward  Conway  closely  —  the  clear  eye, 
the  haughty  turn  of  his  head,  the  quiet,  commanding 
way  of  the  man  sober;  and  the  Whipper-in  frowned  as 
he  said  to  himself : 

"  If  he  keeps  this  up  I'll  have  it  to  do  all  over." 

And  yet,  as  he  looked  at  him,  Jud  Carpenter  took  it 
all  in  —  the  weakness  that  was  still  there,  the  terrible, 
restless  thirst  which  now  made  him  nervous,  irritable,  and 
turned  his  soul  into  a  very  tumult  of  dissatisfaction. 

Carpenter,  even  as  he  talked  to  him,  could  see  the 
fight  which  was  going  on;  and  now  and  then,  in  spite 
of  it  and  his  determination,  he  saw  that  the  reformed 

508 


IN  THYSELF  THERE  IS  WEAKNESS    509 

drunkard  was  looking  wistfully  toward  the  bar-room  of 
Billy  Buch. 

And  so,  as  Jud  talked  to  Edward  Conway  about  the 
house,  he  led  him  along  toward  the  bar-room.  All  the 
time  he  w«,s  complimenting  him  on  his  improved  health, 
and  telling  how,  with  help  from  the  mill,  he  would  soon 
be  on  his  feet  again. 

At  the  bar  door  he  halted: 

"  Let  us  set  down  here  an'  res',  Majah,  sah,  it's  a  good 
place  on  this  little  porch.  Have  somethin'?  Billy's 
got  a  mighty  fine  bran'  of  old  Tennessee  whiskey  in 
there." 

Jud  watched  him  as  he  spoke  and  saw  the  fire  of  ex 
pectancy  burn  in  his  despairing  eyes. 

"  No  —  no  —  Carpenter  —  no  —  I  am  obliged  to 
you  —  but  I  have  sworn  never  to  touch  another  drop  of 
it.  I'll  just  rest  here  with  you."  He  threw  up  his  head 
and  Jud  Carpenter  saw  how  eagerly  he  inhaled  the  odor 
which  came  out  of  the  door.  He  saw  the  quivering  lips, 
the  tense  straining  of  the  throat,  the  wavering  eyes 
which  told  how  sorely  he  was  tempted. 

It  was  cool,  but  the  sweat  stood  in  drops  on  Edward 
Conway's  temple.  He  gulped,  but  swallowed  only  a 
dry  lump,  which  immediately  sprang  back  into  his  throat 
again  and  burned  as  a  ball  of  fire. 

"  No  —  no  —  Carpenter,"  he  kept  saying  in  a  dazed, 
abstracted  way  — "  no  —  no  —  not  any  more  for  me. 
I've  promised  —  I've  promised." 

And  yet  even  while  saying  it  his  eyes  were  saying: 
"  For  God's  sake  —  bring  it  to  me  —  quick  —  quick." 

Jud  arose  and  went  into  the  bar  and  whispered  to 


510        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Billy  Buch.  Then  he  came  back  and  sat  down  and 
talked  of  other  things.  But  all  the  time  he  was  watch 
ing  Edward  Conway  —  the  yearning  look  —  turned 
half  pleadingly  to  the  bar  —  the  gulpings  which  swal 
lowed  nothing. 

Presently  Jud  looked  up.  He  heard  the  tinkle  of 
glasses,  and  Billy  Buch  stood  before  them  with  two  long 
toddies  on  a  silver  waiter.  The  ice  tinkled  and  glit 
tered  in  the  deep  glasses  —  the  cherries  and  pineap 
ple  gleamed  amid  it  and  the  whiskey  —  the  rich  red 
whiskey ! 

"  My  treat  —  an'  no  charges,  gentlemen !  Compli 
ments  of  Billy  Buch." 

Conway  looked  at  the  tempting  glass  for  a  moment 
in  the  terrible  agony  of  indecision.  Then  remorse,  fear, 
shame,  frenzy,  seized  him: 

«No —  no  — I've  sworn  off,  Billy  —  I'll  swear  I 
have.  My  God,  but  I'm  a  Conway  again  " —  and  be 
fore  the  words  were  fairly  out  of  his  mouth  he  had  seized 
the  glass  and  swallowed  the  contents. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  Helen,  quitting  the  mill  im 
mediately  on  its  closing,  slipped  out  of  a  side  door  to 
escape  Richard  Travis  and  almost  ran  home  across  the 
fields.  Never  had  she  been  so  full  of  her  life,  her  plans 
for  the  future,  her  hopes,  her  pride  to  think  her  father 
would  be  himself  again. 

"  For  if  he  will,"  she  whispered,  "  all  else  good  will 
follow." 

Just  at  the  gate  she  stopped  and  almost  fell  in  the 
agony  of  it  all.  Her  father  lay  on  the  dry  grass  by 
the  roadside,  unable  to  walk. 


IN  THYSELF  THERE  IS  WEAKNESS    511 

She  knelt  by  his  side  and  wept.  Her  heart  then  and 
there  gave  up  —  her  soul  quit  in  the  fight  she  was  mak 
ing. 

With  bitterness  which  was  desperate  she  went  to  the 
spring  and  brought  water  and  bathed  his  face.  Then 
when  he  was  sufficiently  himself  to  walk,  she  led  him, 
staggering,  in,  and  up  the  steps. 

Jud  Carpenter  reached  the  mill  an  hour  after  dark: 
He  sought  out  Richard  Travis  and  chuckled,  saying 
nothing. 

Travis  was  busy  with  his  books,  and  when  he  had  fin 
ished  he  turned  and  smiled  at  the  man. 

"Tell  me  what  it  is?" 

"  Oh,  I  fixed  him,  that's  all." 

Then  he  laughed: 

"  He  was  sober  this  morning  an'  was  in  a  fair  way  to 
knock  our  plans  sky  high  —  as  to  the  gal,  you  kno'. 
Reformed  this  mornin',  but  you'll  find  him  good  and 
drunk  to-night." 

"  Oh,"  said  Travis,  knitting  his  brows  thoughtfully. 

"  Did  you  notice  how  much  brighter,  an'  sech,  she's 
been  for  a  day  or  two?  "  asked  Jud. 

"  I  notice  that  she  has  shunned  me  all  day  " —  said 
Travis  — "  as  if  I  were  poison." 

"  She'll  not  shun  you  to-morrow,"  laughed  Jud.  "  She 
is  your's  —  for  a  woman  desperate  is  a  woman  lost  — " 
and  he  chuckled  again  as  he  went  out. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HIMSELF    AGAIN 

NEVER  had  the  two  old  servants  been  so  happy 
as  they  were  that  night  after  their  rescue.  At 
first  they  looked  on  it  as  a  miracle,  in  which  the 
spirits  of  their  young  master  and  his  body-servant,  their 
only  son,  had  come  back  to  earth  to  rescue  them,  and  for 
a  while  their  prayers  and  exhortations  took  on  the  un 
canny  tone  of  superstition.  But  after  they  had  heard 
them  talk  in  the  old  natural  way  and  seen  Captain  Tom 
walking  in  the  living  flesh,  they  became  satisfied  that 
it  was  indeed  their  young  master  whom  they  had  sup 
posed  to  be  dead. 

Jack  Bracken,  with  all  the  tenderness  of  one  speak 
ing  to  little  children,  explained  it  all  to  them  —  how 
he  had  himself  carried  Captain  Tom  off  the  battle-field 
of  Franklin;  how  he  had  cared  for  him  since  —  even 
to  the  present  time;  how  Ephraim  would  not  desert  his 
young  master,  but  had  stayed  with  them,  as  cook  and 
house  boy.  And  how  Captain  Tom  had  now  become 
well  again. 

Jack  was  careful  not  to  go  too  much  into  details  — 
especially  Ephraim  having  lived  for  two  years  within  a 
few  miles  of  his  parents  and  not  making  himself  known ! 
The  truth  was,  as  Jack  knew,  Ephraim  had  become  iii- 

512 


HIMSELF  AGAIN  513 

fatuated  with  the  free- booting  life  of  Jack  Bracken. 
He  had  gone  with  him  on  many  a  raid,  and  gold  came 
too  easy  that  way  to  dig  it  out  of  the  soil,  as  in  a  cotton 
field. 

The  old  people  supposed  all  this  happened  far  away, 
and  in  another  country,  and  that  they  had  all  come 
home  as  soon  as  they  could. 

With  this  they  were  happy. 

"  And  now,"  added  Jack,  "  we  are  going  to  hide  with 
you  a  week  or  so,  until  Captain  Tom  can  lay  his  plans." 

"Thank  God  —  thank  God!" — said  Uncle  Bisco, 
and  he  would  feel  of  his  young  master  and  say :  "  Jes' 
lak  he  allus  wus,  only  his  hair  is  a  leetle  gray.  An' 
in  the  same  uniform  he  rid  off  in  —  the  same  gran' 
clothes." 

Captain  Tom  laughed :  "  No,  not  the  same,  but  like 
them.  You  see,  I  reported  at  Washington  and  ex 
plained  it  to  the  Secretary  of  War,  Jack.  It  seems 
that  Mr.  Lincoln  had  been  kind  enough  to  write  a  per 
sonal  letter  about  me  to  my  grandfather, —  they  were 
old  friends.  It  was  a  peculiar  t,cene  —  my  interview 
with  the  Secretary.  My  grandfather  had  filed  this  let 
ter  at  the  War  Department  before  he  died,  and  my  re 
turn  to  life  was  a  matter  of  interest  and  wonder  to 
them.  And  so  I  am  still  Captain  of  Artillery,"  he 
smiled. 

In  the  little  cabin  the  old  servants  gave  him  the  best 
room,  cleanly  and  sweet  with  an  old-fashioned  feather 
bed  and  counterpane.  Jack  Bracken  had  a  cot  by  his 
bed,  and  on  the  wall  was  a  picture  of  Miss  Alice. 

Long  into  the  night  they  talked,  the  young  man  ask- 
33 


514         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

ing  them  many  questions  and  chief  of  all,  of  Alice. 
They  could  see  that  he  was  thinking  of  her,  and  often 
he  would  stop  before  the  picture  and  look  at  it  and  fall 
into  a  reverie. 

"  It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday,"  he  said,  "  since  I 
left  her  and  went  off  to  the  war.  She  is  not  to  know 
that  I  am  here  —  not  yet.  You  must  hide  me  if  she 
runs  in,"  he  smiled.  "  I  must  see  her  first  in  my  own 
way." 

He  noticed  Jack  Bracken's  cot  by  his  bedside  and 
smiled. 

"  You  see,  I  have  been  takin'  keer  of  you  so  long," 
said  Jack  after  the  old  servants  had  left  them  to  them 
selves,  "  that  I  can't  git  out  of  the  habit.  I  thought 
you  wus  never  comin'  home." 

"  It's  good  we  came  when  we  did,  Jack." 

"  You  ought  to  have  let  me  shoot." 

The  young  Captain  shook  his  head :  "  O  Jack  — 
Jack,  I've  seen  murder  enough  —  it  seems  but  yesterday 
since  I  was  at  Franklin." 

"  Do  you  know  who's  at  the  head  of  all  this?  "  asked 
Jack.  "  It's  Richard  Travis." 

"  The    Bishop    told    me    all,    Jack  —  and   about   my 
grandfather's  will.     But  I  shall  divide  it  with  him - 
it  is  not  fair." 

Jack  watched  the  strong,  tall  man,  as  he  walked  to 
and  fro  in  the  room,  and  a  proud  smile  spread  over  the 
outlaw's  face. 

"  What  a  man  you  are  —  what  a  man  you  are,  Cap'n 
Tom ! " 


HIMSELF  AGAIN  515 

"  It's  good  to  .be  one's  self  again,  Jack.  How  can  I 
ever  repay  you  for  what  you  have  done  for  me?  " 

"  You've  paid  it  long  ago  —  long  ago.  Where  would 
Jack  Bracken  have  been  if  you  hadn't  risked  yo'  life  to 
cut  me  down,  when  the  rope  " — 

Captain  Tom  put  his  hand  on  Jack's  shoulder  af 
fectionately :  "We'll  forget  all  those  horrible  things 

-  and  that  war,  which  was  hell,  indeed.     Jack  —  Jack 

-  there  is  a  new  life  ahead  for  us  both,"  he  said,  smil 
ing  happily. 

"  For  you  —  yes  —  but  not  for  me  " —  and  he  shook 
his  head. 

"  Do  you  remember  little  Jack,  Cap'n  Tom  —  him 
that  died?  I  seem  to  think  mo'  of  him  now  than 
ever  — " 

"  It  is  strange,  Jack  —  but  I  do  distinctly ;  an'  our 
home  in  the  cave,  an'  the  beautiful  room  we  had,  an' 
the  rock  portico  overlaid  with  wild  honey-suckle  and 
Jackson  vines  overlooking  the  grand  river." 

"  Jack,  do  you  know  we  must  go  there  this  week  and 
see  it  again?  I  have  plans  to  carry  out  before  making 
my  identity  known." 

An  hour  afterwards  the  old  servants  heard  Captain 
Tom  step  out  into  the  yard.  It  was  then  past  mid 
night  —  the  most  memorable  night  of  all  their  lives. 
Neither  of  the  old  servants  could  sleep,  for  hearing 
Ephraim  talk,  and  that  lusty  darkey  had  sadly  mixed 
his  imagination  and  his  facts. 

The  old  man  went  out :  "  Don't  be  uneasy,"  said 
Captain  Tom.  "  I  am  going  to  saddle  John  Paul  Jones 
and  ride  over  the  scenes  of  my  youth.  They  might  see 


516         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

me  by  daylight,  and  the  moonlight  is.  so  beautiful  to 
night.  I  long  to  see  The  Gaffs,  and  Westmoreland, 
my  grandfather's  grave,"  and  then  in  a  tenderer  tone  — 
"  and  my  father's ;  he  lies  buried  in  the  flag  I  love." 

He  smiled  sadly  and  went  out. 

John  Paul  Jones  had  been  comfortably  housed  in  the 
little  stable  nearby.  He  nickered  affectionately  as  his 
master  came  up  and  led  him  out. 

The  young  officer  stood  a  few  moments  looking  at 
the  splendid  horse,  and  with  the  look  came  a  flood  of 
memories  so  painful  that  he  bowed  his  head  in  the  sad 
dle. 

When  he  looked  up  Jack  Bracken  stood  by  his  side: 
"  I  don't  much  like  this,  Cap'n  Tom.  Not  to-night, 
after  all  we've  done  to  them.  They've  got  out  spies 
now  —  I  know  them ;  a  lot  of  negroes  calling  themselves 
Union  League,  but  secretly  waylaying,  burning  and  kill 
ing  all  who  differ  with  them  in  politics.  They're  made 
the  Klu-Klux  a  necessity.  Now,  I  don't  want  you  to 
turn  me  into  a  Klu-Klux  to-night." 

"  Ah,  they  would  not  harm  me,  Jack,  not  me,  after 
all  I  have  suffered.  It  has  all  been  so  hazy,"  he  went 
on,  as  if  trying  to  recall  it  all,  "  so  hazy  until  now. 
Now,  how  clear  it  all  is !  Here  is  the  creek,  yonder  the 
mountain,  and  over  beyond  that  the  village.  And  yon 
der  is  Westmoreland.  I  remember  it  all  —  so  distinctly*. 
And  after  Franklin,  my  God,  it  was  so  hazy,  with  some 
thing  pressing  me  down  as  if  I  were  under  a  house 
which  had  fallen  on  me  and  pinned  me  to  the  ground. 
But  now,  O  God,  I  thank  Thee  that  I  am  a  man  again  I " 

Jack  went  back  into  the  cabin. 


HIMSELF  AGAIN  517 

Captain  Tom  stood  drinking  it  all  in  —  the  moon 
light,  on  the  roof  of  Westmoreland,  shining  through 
the  trees.  Then  he  thought  of  what  the  old  Bishop 
had  told  him  of  Alice,  the  great  pressure  brought  to 
bear  on  her  to  marry  Richard  Travis,  and  of  her  devo 
tion  to  the  memory  of  her  first  love. 

"  And  for  her  love  and  her  constancy,  oh,  God,  I 
thank  Thee  most  of  all,"  he  said,  looking  upward  at  the 
stars. 

He  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  slowly  out  into  the 
night,  a  commanding  figure,  for  the  horse  and  rider 
were  one,  and  John  Paul  Jones  tossed  his  head  as  if  to 
show  his  joy,  tossed  his  head  proudly  and  was  in  for  a 
gallop. 

Captain  Tom's  pistols  were  buckled  to  his  side,  for  he 
had  had  experience  enough  in  the  early  part  of  the 
night  to  show  him  the  unsettled  state  of  affairs  still  ex 
isting  in  the  country  under  negro  domination. 

There  were  no  lights  at  Westmoreland,  but  he  knew 
which  was  Alice's  room,  and  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree  he 
stopped  and  looked  long  at  the  window.  Oh,  to  tear 
down  the  barriers  which  separated  him  from  her!  To 
see  her  once  more  —  she  the  beautiful  and  true  —  her 
hair  —  her  eyes,  and  to  place  again  the  kiss  of  a  new 
betrothal  on  her  lips,  the  memory  of  which,  in  all  his 
sorrows  and  afflictions,  had  never  left  him.  And  now 
they  told  him  she  was  more  beautiful  than  ever.  Twelve 
years  —  twelve  years  out  of  his  life  —  years  of  f orget- 
f ulness  —  and  yet  it  seemed  but  a  few  months  since  he 
had  bade  Alice  good-bye  —  here  —  here  under  the  crepe- 
myrtle  tree  where  he  now  stood.  He  knelt  and  kissed 


518        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

the  holy  sod.  A  wave  of  triumphant  happiness  came 
over  him.  He  arose  and  threw  passionate  kisses  toward 
her  window.  Then  he  mounted  and  rode  off. 

At  The  Gaffs  he  looked  long  and  earnestly.  He 
imagined  he  saw  the  old  Colonel,  his  grandfather,  sitting 
in  his  accustomed  place  on  the  front  porch,  his  feet 
propped  on  the  balcony,  his  favorite  hound  by  his  side. 
Long  he  gazed,  looking  at  every  familiar  place  of  his 
youth.  He  knew  now  that  every  foot  of  it  would  be 
his.  He  had  no  bitterness  in  his  heart.  Not  he,  for 
in  the  love  and  constancy  of  Alice  Westmore  all  such 
things  seemed  unspeakable  insignificance  to  the  glory  of 
that. 

In  the  old  family  cemetery,  which  lay  hid  among 
the  cedars  on  the  hill,  he  stood  bare-headed  before  the 
grave  of  his  grandsire  and  silently  the  tears  fell: 

"  My  noble  old  grandsire,"  he  murmured,  "  if  the 
spirits  of  the  dead  look  down  on  the  living,  tell  me  I 
have  not  proved  unworthy.  It  was  his  flag  —  my 
father's,  and  he  lies  by  you  wrapped  in  it.  Tell  me  I 
have  not  been  unworthy  the  same,  for  I  have  suf 
fered." 

And  from  the  silent  stars,  as  he  looked  up,  there  fell 
on  him  a  benediction  of  peace. 

Then  he  drew  himself  up  proudly  and  gave  each 
grave  a  military  salute,  mounted  and  rode  away. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    JOY   OF    THE    MORNING 

ALL  the  week,   since  the  scene  at  Maggie's  death 
bed,   Alice   Westmore    had    remained   at   home, 
while  strange,  bitter  feelings,  such  as  she  had 
never  felt   before,   surged   in   her  heart.      Her  brother 
was  away,  and  this  gave  her  more  freedom  to  do  as  she 
wished  —  to   remain    in   her    room  —  and   her   mother's 
presence   now   was   not  altogether  the  solace  her  heart 
craved. 

Of  the  utmost  purity  of  thought  herself,  Alice  West- 
more  had  never  even  permitted  herself  to  harbor  any 
thing  reflecting  on  the  character  of  those  she  trusted ; 
and-  in  the  generosity  of  her  nature,  she  considered  all 
her  friends  trustworthy.  Thinking  no  evil,  she  knew 
none;  nor  would  she  permit  any  idle  gossip  to  be  re 
peated  before  her.  In  her  case  her  unsuspecting  nature 
was  strengthened  by  her  environment,  living  as  she  was 
with  her  mother  and  brother  only. 

It  is  true  that  she  had  heard  faint  rumors  of  Richard 
Travis's  life;  but  the  full  impurity  of  it  had  never 
been  realized  by  her  until  she  saw  Maggie  die.  Then 
Richard  Travis  went,  not  only  out  of  her  life,  but  out 
of  her  very  thoughts.  She  remembered  him  only  as  she 
did  some  evil  character  read  of  in  fiction  or  history. 
Perhaps  in  this  she  was  more  severe  than  necessary  — 

519 


520        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

since  the  pendulum  of  anger  swings  always  farthest  in 
the  first  full  stroke  of  indignation.  And  then  the  sur 
prise  of  it  —  the  shock  of  it !  Never  had  she  gone 
through  a  week  so  full  of  unhappiness,  since  it  had  come 
to  her,  years  before,  that  Tom  Travis  had  been  killed  at 
Franklin. 

Her  mother's  entreaties  —  tears,  even  —  affected 
her  now  no  more  than  the  cries  of  a  spoiled  child. 

"  Oh,  Alice,"  she  said  one  night  when  she  had  been 
explaining  and  apologizing  for  Richard  Travis  — "  you 
should  know  now,  child,  really,  you  ought  to  know  by 
now,  that  all  men  may  not  have  been  created  alike,  but 
they  are  all  alike." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  said  Alice  with  feeling  — "  I 
never  want  to  believe  it  —  I  never  shall  believe  it." 

"  My  darling,"  said  the  mother,  laying  her  face 
against  Alice's,  "  I  have  reared  you  too  far  from  the 
world." 

But  for  once  in  her  life  Mrs.  Westmore  knew  that  her 
daughter,  who  had  heretofore  been  willing  to  sacrifice 
everything  for  her  mother's  comfort,  now  halted  before 
such  &  chasm  as  chis,  as  stubborn  and  instinctively  as  a 
wild  doe  in  her  flight  before  a  precipice. 

Twice  Alice  knew  that  Richard  Travis  had  called ;  and 
she  went  to  her  t^oom  and  locked  the  door.  She  did  not 
wish  even  to  think  of  him ;  for  when  she  did  it  was  not 
Richard  Travis  she  saw,  but  Maggie  dying,  with  the 
picture  of  him  under  her  pillow. 

She  devised  many  plans  for  herself,  but  go  away  she 
must,  perhaps  to  teach. 

In  the  midst  of  her  perplexity  there  came  to  her  Sat- 


THE  JOY  OF  THE  MORNING  521 

urday  afternoon  a  curiously  worded  note,  from  the  old 
Cottontown  preacher,  telling  her  not  to  forget  now  that 
he  had  returned  and  that  Sunday  School  lessons  at 
Uncle  Bisco's  were  in  order.  He  closed  with  a  remark 
which,  read  between  the  lines,  she  saw  was  intended  to 
warn  and  prepare  her  for  something  unexpected,  the 
greatest  good  news,  as  he  said,  of  her  life.  Then  he 
quoted : 

"  And  Moses  stretched  forth  his  hand  over  the  sea, 
and  the  sea  returned  to  his  strength  when  the  morning 
appeared." 

There  was  but  one  great  good  news  that  Alice  West- 
more  cared  for,  and,  strange  to  say,  all  the  week  she  had 
been  thinking  of  it.  It  came  about  involuntarily,  as 
she  compared  men  with  one  another. 

It  came  as  the  tide  comes  back  to  the  ocean,  as  the 
stars  come  with  the  night.  She  tried  to  smother  it,  but 
it  would  not  be  smothered.  At  last  she  resigned  herself 
to  the  wretchedness  of  it  —  as  one  when,  despairing  of 
throwing  off  a  mood,  gives  way  to  it  and  lets  it  eat  its 
own  heart  out.  . 

She  could  scarcely  wait  until  night.  Her  heart  beat 
at  intervals,  in  agitated  fierceness,  and  flushes  of  red 
went  through  her  cheek  all  the  afternoon,  at  the  thought 
in  her  heart  that  at  times  choked  her. 

Then  came  the  kindly  old  man  himself,  his  face  ra 
diant  with  a  look  she  had  not  seen  on  a  face  for  many 
weeks.  After  the  week  she  had  been  through,  this  itself 
was  a  comfort.  She  met  him  with  feigned  calmness  and 
a  little  laugh. 

"  You    promised    to    tell    me    where    you    had    been, 


522        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Bishop,  all  these  weeks.  It  must  have  made  you  very, 
very  happy." 

"  I'll  tell  you  down  at  the  cabin,  if  you'll  dress  yo' 
very  pretties'.  There's  friends  of  yo's  down  there  you 
ain't  seen  in  a  long  time  —  that's  mighty  anxious  to  see 
you." 

"  Oh,  I  do  indeed  feel  ashamed  of  myself  for  having 
neglected  the  old  servants  so  long;  but  you  cannot 
know  what  has  been  on  my  mind.  Yes,  I  will  go  with 
you  directly." 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  admiringly  when  she  was 
ready  to  go  —  at  the  dainty  gown  of  white,  the  splendid 
hair  of  dark  auburn  crowning  her  head,  the  big  wistful 
eyes,  the  refined  face.  Upon  him  had  devolved  the  duty 
of  preparing  Alice  Westmore  for  what  she  would  see  in 
the  cabin,  and  never  did  he  enter  more  fully  into  the 
sacredness  of  such  an  occasion. 

And  now,  when  she  was  ready  and  stood  before  him 
in  all  her  superb  womanhood,  a  basket  of  dainties  on 
her  arm  for  the  old  servants,  he  spoke  very  solemnly  as 
he  handed  her  an  ambrotype  set  in  a  large  gold  breast 
pin. 

"  You'll  need  this  to  set  you  off  —  around  yo'  neck." 

At  sight  of  it  all  the  color  left  her  cheeks. 

"  Why,  it  is  mine  —  I  gave  it  to  —  to  —  Tom.  He 
took  it  to  the  war  with  him.  Where  "—  A  sob  leaped 
into  her  throat  and  stopped  her. 

"  On  my  journey,"  said  the  old  man  quickly,  "  I 
heard  somethin'  of  Cap'n  Tom.  You  must  prepare  yo'- 
se'f  for  good  news." 

Her  heart  jumped  and  the  blood  surged  back  again, 


THE  JOY  OF  THE  MORNING  523 

and  she  grew  weak,  but  the  old  man  laughed  his  cheery 
laugh,  and,  pretending  to  clap  her  playfully  on  the 
shoulder,  he  held  her  firmly  with  his  great  iron  hand,  as 
he  saw  the  blood  go  out  of  her  cheeks,  leaving  them  as 
white  as  white  roses: 

"Down  there,"  he  added,  "I'll  tell  you  all.  But 
God  is  good  —  God  is  good." 

Bewildered,  pale,  and  with  throbbing  heart,  she  let 
him  take  her  basket  and  lead  her  down  the  well-beaten 
path.  She  could  not  speak,  for  something,  somehow, 
said  to  her  that  Captain  Tom  Travis  was  alive  and  that 
she  would  see  him  —  next  week  perhaps  —  next  month 
or  year  —  it  mattered  not  so  that  she  would  see  him. 
And  yet  —  and  yet  —  O  all  these  years  —  all  these 
years!  She  kept  saying  over  the  words  of  the  old 
Bishop,  as  one  numbed,  and  unable  to  think,  keeps  re 
peating  the  last  thing  that  enters  the  mind.  Trem 
bling,  white,  her  knees  weak  beneath  her,  she  followed 
saying : 

"  God  is  good  —  oh,  Bishop  —  tell  me  —  why  — 
why  —  why  — " 

"  Because  Cap'n  Tom  is  not  dead,  Miss  Alice,  he  is 
alive  and  well." 

They  had  reached  the  large  oak  which  shadowed  the 
little  cabin.  She  stopped  suddenly  in  the  agony  of 
happiness,  and  the  strong  old  man,  who  had  been  watch 
ing  her,  turned  and  caught  her  with  a  firm  grasp,  while 
the  stars  danced  frantically  above  her.  And  half-un 
conscious  she  felt  another  one  come  to  his  aid,  one  who 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  lips  and  her  eyes 
.-.'  .  and  carried  her  into  the  bright  fire-lighted 


524        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

cabin,  .  .  .  carried  her  in  strength  and  happiness 
that  made  her  lay  her  cheek  against  his,  .  .  .  and 
there  were  tears  on  it,  and  somehow  she  lay  as  if  she 
were  a  child  in  his  arms,  ...  a  child  again  and 
she  was  happy,  .  .  .  and  there  were  silence  and 
sweet  dreams  and  the  long-dead  smell  of  the  crepe-myr 
tle.  .  .  .  She  did  not  remember  again  until  she  sat 
up  on  the  cot  in  the  clean  little  cabin,  and  Tom  Travis, 
tall  and  in  the  splendor  of  manhood,  sat  holding  her 
hands  and  stroking  her  hair  and  whispering:  "Alice, 
my  darling  —  it  is  all  well  —  and  I  have  come  back  for 
you  at  last!  " 

And  the  old  servants  stood  around  smiling  and  happy, 
but  so  silent  and  composed  that  she  knew  that  they  had 
been  schooled  to  it,  and  a  big  man,  who  seemed  to  watch 
Captain  Tom  as  a  big  dog  would  his  master,  kept 
blowing  his  nose  and  walking  around  the  room.  And 
by  the  fire  sat  the  old  Cottontown  preacher,  his  back 
turned  to  them  and  saying  just  loud  enough  to  be 
heard :  "  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd,  I  shall  not  want. 
He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures,  .  .  . 
he  restoreth  my  soul —  .  .  .  my  cup  runneth 
over.  .  .  ." 

And  then  sillily,  as  Alice  thought,  she  threw  her  arms 
around  the  neck  of  the  man  she  loved  and  burst  into 
the  tears  which  brought  the  sweetness  of  assurance,  the 
calmness  of  a  reality  that  meant  happiness. 

And  for  an  hour  she  sobbed,  her  arms  there,  and  he 
holding  her  tight  to  his  breast  and  talking  in  the  old 
way,  natural  and  soothing  and  reassuring  and  taking 
from  her  heart  all  fear  and  the  shock  of  it,  until  at  last 


THE  JOY  OF  THE  MORNING  525 

it  all  seemed  natural  and  not  a  dream,  .  .  .  and 
the  sweetness  of  it  all  was  like  the  light  which  cometh 
with  the  joy  of  the  morning. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   TOUCH   OF   GOD 

news  of  Captain  Tom's  return  spread  quickly. 
By  noon  it  was  known  throughout  the  Tennessee 
Valley. 

The  sensational  features  of  it  required  prompt  action 
on  his  and  Alice's  part,  and  their  decision  was  quickly 
made:  they  would  be  married  that  Sunday  afternoon 
in  the  little  church  on  the  mountain  side  and  by  the  old 
man  who  had  done  so  much  to  make  their  happiness 
possible. 

For  once  in  its  history  the  little  church  could  not  hold 
the  people  who  came  to  witness  this  romantic  marriage, 
and  far  down  the  mountain  side  they  stood  to  see  the 
bride  and  groom  pass  by.  Many  remembered  the 
groom,  all  had  heard  of  him, —  his  devotion  to  his  coun 
try's  flag;  to  the  memory  of  his  father;  his  gallantry, 
his  heroism,  his  martyrdom,  dying  (as  they  supposed) 
rather  than  turn  his  guns  on  his  brave  old  grandsire. 
And  now  to  come  back  to  life  again  —  to  win  the  woman 
he  loved  and  who  had  loved  him  all  these  years!  Be 
sides,  there  was  no  one  in  the  Tennessee  Valley  considered 
more  beautiful  than  the  bride,  and  they  loved  her  as  if 
she  had  been  an  angel  of  light. 

And  never  had  she  appeared  more  lovely. 

A  stillness  swept  over  the  crowd  when  the  carriage 
526 


THE  TOUCH  OF  GOD  527 

drove  up  to  the  little  church,  and  when  the  tall,  hand 
some  man  in  the  uniform  of  a  captain  of  artillery  lifted 
Alice  out  with  the  tenderness  of  all  lovers  in  his  touch 
and  the  strength  of  a  strong  lover,  with  a  lily  in  his 
hand,  the  crowd,  knowing  his  history,  could  not  refrain 
from  cheering.  He  lifted  his  cap  and  threw  back  his 
iron-gray  hair,  showing  a  head  proud  and  tender  and 
on  his  face  such  a  smile  as  lovers  only  wear.  Then  he 
led  her  in, —  pale  and  tearful. 

The  little  church  had  been  prettily  decorated  that 
Sabbath  morning,  and  when  the  old  preacher  came  for 
ward  and  called  them  to  him,  he  said  the  simple  words 
which  made  them  man  and  wife,  and  as  he  blessed  them, 
praying,  a  mocking-bird,  perched  on  a  limb  near  the 
window,  sang  a  soft  low  melody  as  if  one  singer  wished 
to  compliment  another. 

They  went  out  hand  in  hand,  and  when  they  reached 
the  door,  the  sun  which  had  been  hid  burst  out  as  a 
benediction  upon  them. 

Among  the  guests  one  man  had  stepped  in  unnoticed 
and  unseen.  Why  he  came  he  could  not  tell,  for  never 
before  did  he  have  any  desire  to  go  to  the  little  church. 

It  was  midnight  when  the  news  came  to  him  that 
Tom  Travis  had  returned  as  from  the  dead.  It  was 
Jud  Carpenter  who  had  awakened  him  that  Saturday 
night  to  whisper  at  the  bedside  the  startling  news. 

But  Travis  only  yawned  from  his  sleep  and  said: 
"  I've  been  expecting  it  all  the  time  —  go  somewhere 
and  go  to  bed." 

After  Carpenter  had  gone,  he  arose,  stricken  with  a 
feeling  he  could  not  describe,  but  had  often  seen  in 


528        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

race  horses  running  desperately  until  within  fifty  yards 
of  the  wire,  and  then  suddenly  —  quitting.  He  had  al 
most  reached  his  goal  —  but  now  one  week  had  done 
all  this.  Alice  —  gone,  and  The  Gaffs  —  he  must  di 
vide  that  with  his  cousin  —  for  his  grandfather  had  left 
no  will. 

Divide  The  Gaffs  with  Tom  Travis?  — He  would  as 
soon  think  of  dividing  Alice's  love  with  him.  In  the 
soul  of  Richard  Travis  there  was  no  such  word  as  di 
vision. 

In  the  selfishness  of  his  life,  it  had  ever  been  all  or 
nothing. 

All  night  he  thought,  he  walked  the  halls  of  the  old 
house,  he  ran  over  a  hundred  solutions  of  it  in  his  mind. 
And  still  there  was  no  solution  that  satisfied  him,  that 
seemed  natural.  It  seemed  that  his  mind,  which  had 
heretofore  worked  so  unerringly,  Seducing  things  so 
naturally,  now  balked  before  an  abyss  that  was  bridge- 
less.  Heretofore  he  had  looked  into  the  future  with 
the  bold,  true  sweep  of  an  eagle  peering  from  its  moun 
tain  home  above  the  clouds  into  the  far  distance,  his 
eyes  unclouded  by  the  mist,  which  cut  off  the  vision  of 
mortals  below.  But  now  he  was  the  blindest  of  the 
blind.  He  seemed  to  stop  as  before  a  wall  —  a  chasm 
which  ended  everything  —  a  chasm,  on  the  opposite  wall 
of  which  was  printed:  Thus  far  and  no  farther. 

Think  as  he  would,  he  could  not  think  beyond  it.  His 
life  seemed  to  stop  there.  After  it,  he  was  nothing. 

Our  minds,  our  souls  —  are  like  the  sun,  which  shines 
very  plainly  as  it  moves  across  the  sky  of  our  life  of 
things  —  showing  them  in  all  distinctness  and  clearness ; 


THE  TOUCH  OF  GOD  529 

so  that  we  see  things  as  they  happen  to  us  with  our  eyes 
of  daylight.  But  as  the  sun  throws  its  dim  twilight 
shadows  even  beyond  our  earth,  so  do  the  souls  of  men 
of  great  mind  and  imagination  see,  faintly,  beyond  their 
own  lives,  and  into  the  shadow  of  things. 

To-night  that  mysterious  sight  came  to  Richard 
Travis,  as  it  comes  in  the  great  crises  of  life  and  death, 
to  every  strong  man,  and  he  saw  dimly,  ghostily,  into 
the  shadow;  and  the  shadow  stopped  at  the  terrible 
abyss  which  now  barred  his  ken;  and  he  felt,  with  the 
keen  insight  of  the  dying  eagle  on  the  peak,  that  the 
thing  was  death. 

In  the  first  streak  of  light,  he  was  rudely  awakened 
to  it.  For  there  on  the  rug,  as  naturally  as  if  asleep, 
lay  the  only  thing  he  now  loved  in  the  world,  the  old 
setter,  whose  life  had  passed  out  in  slumber. 

All  animals  have  the  dying  instinct.  Man,  the 
highest,  has  it  the  clearest.  And  Travis  remembered 
that  the  old  dog  had  come  to  his  bed,  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  and  laid  his  large  beautiful  head  on  his  mas 
ter's  breast,  and  in  the  dim  light  of  the  smouldering 
fire  had  said  good-bye  to  Richard  Travis  as  plainly  as 
ever  human  being  said  it.  And  now  on  the  rug,  before 
the  dead  gray  ashes  of  the  night,  he  had  found  the  old 
dog  forever  asleep,  naturally  and  in  great  peace. 

His  heart  sank  as  he  thought  of  the  farewell  of  the 
night  before,  and  bitterness  came,  and  sitting  down  on 
the  rug  by  the  side  of  the  dead  dog  he  stroked  for  the 
last  time  the  grand  old  silken  head,  so  calm  and  poised, 
for  the  little  world  it  had  been  bred  for,  and  ran  his 
palm  over  the  long  strong  nose  that  had  never  lied  to 
34 


530        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

the  scent  of  the  covey.  His  lips  tightened  and  he  said : 
"  O  God,  I  am  dying  myself,  and  there  is  not  a  living 
being  whom  I  can  crawl  up  to,  and  lay  my  head  on  its 
breast  and  know  it  loves  and  pities  me,  as  I  love  you,  old 
friend." 

The  thought  gripped  his  throat,  and  as  he  thought  of 
the  sweetness  and  nobility  of  this  dumb  thing,  his  gen 
tleness,  faithfulness  and  devotion,  the  sureness  of  his  life 
in  filling  the  mission  he  came  for,  he  wept  tears  so 
strange  to  his  cheek  that  they  scalded  as  they  flowed,  and 
he  bowed  his  head  and  said :  "  Gladstone,  Gladstone, 
good-bye  —  true  to  your  breeding,  you  were  what  your 
master  never  was  —  a  gentleman." 

And  the  old  housekeeper  found  this  strong  man,  who 
had  never  wept  in  his  life,  crying  over  the  old  dead 
setter  on  the  rug. 

And  the  same  feeling,  the  second  sight  —  the  pre 
sentiment  —  the  terrible  balking  of  his  mind  that  had 
always  seen  so  clearly,  ever  into  the  future,  held  him 
as  in  a  vise  all  the  morning  and  moved  him  in  a  strange 
mysterious  wray  to  go  to  the  church  and  see  the  woman 
he  had  loved  all  his  life,  the  being  whose  very  look  up 
lifted  him,  and  whose  smile  could  make  him  a  hero  or  a 
martyr,  married  to  the  man  who  came  home  to  take  her, 
and  half  of  his  all. 

Numbed,  hardened,  speechless,  and  yet  with  that  ter 
rible  presentiment  of  the  abyss  before  him,  he  had  stood 
and  seen  Alice  Westmore  made  the  wife  of  another. 

He  remembered  first  how  quickly  he  had  caught  the 
text  of  the  old  man;  indeed,  it  seemed  to  him  now  that 
everything  he  heard  struck  into  him  like  a  brand  of 


THE  TOUCH  OF  GOD  531 

fire  —  for  never  had  life  appeared  to  him  as  it  did  to 
day. 

"  For  the  hand  of  God  hath  touched  me—  'he  kept 
repeating  over  and  over  —  repeating  and  then  cursing 
himself  for  repeating  it  —  for  remembering  it. 

And  still  it  stayed  there  all  day  —  the  unbidden 
ghost-guest  of  his  soul. 

And  everything  the  old  preacher  said  went  searing 
into  his  quivering  soul,  and  all  the  time  he  kept  looking 
—  looking  at  the  woman  he  loved  and  seeing  her  giving 
her  love,  her  life,  with  a  happy  smile,  to  another.  And 
all  the  time  he  stood  wondering  why  he  came  to  see  it, 
why  he  felt  as  he  did.  why  things  hurt  him  that  way, 
why  he  acted  so  weakly,  why  his  conscience  had  awakened 
at  last,  why  life  hurt  him  so  —  life  that  he  had  played 
with  as  an  edged  tool  —  why  he  could  not  get  away 
from  himself  and  his  memory,  but  ran  always  into  it, 
and  why  at  last  with  a  shudder,  why  did  nothing  seem 
to  be  beyond  the  wall? 

He  saw  her  go  off,  the  wife  of  another,  He  saw  their 
happiness  —  unconscious  even  that  he  lived,  and  he 
cursed  himself  and  kept  saying:  "  The  hand  of  God 
hath  touched  me." 

Then  he  laughed  at  himself  for  being  silly. 

He  rode  home,  but  it  was  not  home.  Nothing  was 
itself  —  not  even  he.  In  the  watches  of  one  night  his 
life  had  been  changed  and  the  light  had  gone  out. 

When  night  came  it  was  worse.  He  mounted  his 
horse  and  rode  —  where  ?  And  he  could  no  more  help 
it  than  he  could  cease  to  breathe. 

He  did  not  guide  the  saddle  mare,  she  went  herself 


532        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

through  wood  sombre  and  dark  with  shadows,  through 
cedar  trees,  dwarfed,  and  making  pungent  the  night  air 
with  aromatic  breath;  through  old  sedge  fields,  garish 
in  the  faint  light;  up,  up  the  mountain,  over  it;  and  at 
last  the  mare  stopped  and  stood  silently  by  a  newly 
made  grave,  while  Richard  Travis,  with  strained  hard 
mouth  and  wet  eyes,  knelt  and,  knowing  that  no  hand 
in  the  world  cared  to  feel  his  repentant  face  in  it,  he 
buried  it  in  the  new  made  sod  as  he  cried :  "  Maggie 
-  Maggie  —  forgive  me,  for  the  hand  of  God  hath 
touched  me !  " 

And  it  soothed  him,  for  he  knew  that  if  she  were  alive 
he  might  have  lain  his  head  there  —  on  her  breast. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MAMMY    MABIA 

JTTT^HAT   Monday   was   a   memorable   day   for   Helen 
Con  way.      She  went  to  the  mill  with  less  bitter 
ness  than  ever  before  —  the  sting  of  it  all  was 
gone  —  for  she  felt  that  she  was  helpless  to  the  fate  that 
was    hers  —  that    she    was    powerless    in    the    hands    of 
Richard  Travis: 

"  /  will  come  for  you  Monday  night.     I  will   take 
you  away  from  here.      You  shall  belong  to  me  forever 
-  My  Queen!  " 

These  words  had  rung  in  her  ears  all  Saturday  night, 
when,  after  coming  home,  she  had  found  her  father 
fallen  by  the  wayside. 

In  the  night  she  had  lain  awake  and  wondered.  She 
did  not  know  where  she  was  going  —  she  did  not  care. 
She  did  not  even  blush  at  the  thought  of  it.  She  was 
hardened,  steeled.  She  knew  not  whether  it  meant  wife 
or  mistress.  She  knew  only  that,  as  she  supposed,  God 
had  placed  upon  her  more  than  she  could  bear 

"  If  my  life  is  wrecked,"  she  said  as  she  lay  awake 
that  Sunday  night  —  "  God  himself  will  do  it.  Who 
took  my  mother  before  I  knew  her  influence?  Who 
made  me  as  I  am  and  gave  me  poverty  with  this  fatal 
beauty  —  poverty  and  a  drunken  father  and  this  terri 
ble  temptation?" 

533 


534        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  Oh,  if  I  only  had  her,  Mammy  —  negro  that  she 
is." 

Lily  was  asleep  with  one  arm  around  her  sister's  neck. 

"  What  will  become  of  Lily,  in  the  mill,  too?  "  She 
bent  and  kissed  her,  and  she  saw  that  the  little  one, 
though  asleep,  had  tears  in  her  own  eyes. 

Young  as  she  was,  Helen's  mind  was  maturer  than 
might  have  been  supposed.  And  the  problem  which 
confronted  her  she  saw  very  clearly,  although  she  was 
unable  to  solve  it.  The  problem  was  not  new,  indeed, 
it  has  been  Despair's  conundrum  since  the  world  began : 
Whose  fault  that  my  life  has  been  as  it  is?  In  her 
despair,  doubting,  she  cried : 

"  Is  there  really  a  God,  as  Mammy  Maria  told  me? 
Does  He  interpose  in  our  lives,  or  are  we  rushed  along 
by  the  great  moral  and  physical  laws,  which  govern  the 
universe;  and  if  by  chance  we  fail  to  harmonize  with 
them,  be  crushed  for  our  ignorance  —  our  ignorance 
which  is  nof  of  our  own  making?  " 

"  By  chance  —  by  chance,"  she  repeated,  "  but  if 
there  be  great  fixed  laws,  how  can  there  be  any  — 
chance? " 

The  thought  was  hopeless.  She  turned  in  her  despair 
and  hid  her  face.  And  then  out  of  the  darkness  came 
the  strong  fine  face  of  Clay  Westmore  —  and  his  words: 
"  We  must  all  work  —  it  is  life's  badge  of  nobility." 

How  clearly  and  calmly  they  came  to  her.  And  then 
her  heart  fluttered.  Suppose  Clay  loved  her  —  suppose 
this  was  her  solution?  He  had  never  pressed  his  love 
on  her.  Did  he  think  a  woman  could  be  loved  that  way 
—  scientifically  —  as  coal  and  iron  are  discovered? 


MAMMY  MARIA  535 

She  finally  slept,  her  arms  around  her  little  sister. 
But  the  last  recollection  she  had  was  Clay's  fine  face 
smiling  at  her  through  the  darkness  and  saying :  "  We 
must  all  work  —  it  is  life's  badge  of  nobility." 

It  was  Monday  morning,  and  she  would  take  Lily  with 
her  to  the  mill;  for  the  child's  work  at  the  spinning 
frames  was  to  begin  that  day.  There  was  no  alterna 
tive.  Again  the  great  unknown  law  rushed  her  along. 
Her  father  had  signed  them  both,  and  in  a  few  days 
their  home  would  be  sold. 

They  were  late  at  the  mill,  but  the  little  one,  as  she 
trudged  along  by  the  side  of  her  sister,  was  happier 
than  she  had  been  since  her  old  nurse  had  left.  It  was 
great  fun  for  her,  this  going  to  the  mill  with  her  big 
sister. 

The  mill  had  been  throbbing  and  humming  long  be 
fore  they  reached  it.  Helen  turned  Lily  over  to  the 
floor  manager,  after  kissing  her  good-bye,  and  bade  her 
do  as  she  was  told.  Twice  again  she  kissed  her,  and 
then  with  a  sob  hurried  away  to  her  own  room. 

Travis  was  awaiting  her  in  the  hall.  She  turned 
pale  and  then  crimson  when  she  saw  him.  And  yet,  when 
she  ventured  to  look  at  him  as  she  was  passing,  she  was 
stopped  with  the  change  which  lay  on  his  face.  It  was 
a  sad  smile  he  gave  her,  sad  but  determined.  And  in 
the  courtly  bow  was  such  a  look  of  tenderness  that  with 
fluttering  heart  and  a  strange  new  feeling  of  uplifted- 
ness  —  a  confidence  in  him  for  the  first  time,  she  stopped 
and  gave  him  her  hand  with  a  grateful  smile.  It  was  a 
simple  act  and  so  pretty  that  the  sadness  went  from 
Travis'  face  as  he  said: 


536        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  I  was  not  going  to  stop  you  —  this  is  kind  of  yon. 
Saturday,  I  thought  you  feared  me." 

"  Yes,"  she  smiled,  "  but  not  now  —  not  when  you 
look  like  that." 

"  Have  I  changed  so  much  since  then  ? "  and  he 
looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  There  is  something  in  your  face  I  never  saw  before. 
It  made  me  stop." 

"  I  am  glad  it  was  there,  then,"  he  said  simply,  "  for 
I  wished  you  to  stop,  though  I  did  not  want  to  say  so." 

"  Saturday  you  would  have  said  so,"  she  replied  with 
simple  frankness. 

He  came  closer  to  her  with  equal  frankness,  and  yet 
with  a  tenderness  which  thrilled  her  he  said: 

"  Perhaps  I  was  not  so  sure  Saturday  of  many  things 
that  I  am  positive  of  to-day." 

"  Of  what?  "  she  asked  flushing. 

He  smiled  again,  but  it  was  not  the  old  smile  which 
had  set  her  to  trembling  with  a  flurry  of  doubt  and 
shame.  It  was  the  smile  of  respect.  Then  it  left  him, 
and-  in  its  stead  flashed  instantly  the  old  conquering 
light  when  he  said: 

"  To-night,  you  know,  you  will  be  mine !  " 

The  change  of  it  all,  the  shock  of  it,  numbed  her. 
She  tried  to  smile,  but  it  was  the  lifeless  curl  of  her  lips 
instead  —  and  the  look  she  gave  him  —  of  resignation, 
of  acquiescence,  of  despair  —  he  had  seen  it  once  be 
fore,  in  the  beautiful  eyes  of  the  first  young  doe  that 
fell  to  his  rifle.  She  was  not  dead  when  he  bounded 
to  the  spot  where  she  lay  —  and  she  gave  him  that  look. 


MAMMY  MARIA  537 

Edward  Conway  watched  his  two  daughters  go  out 
of  the  gate  on  their  way  to  the  mill,  sitting  with  his 
feet  propped  up,  and  drunker  than  he  had  been  for 
weeks.  But  indistinct  as  things  were,  the  poignancy  of 
it  went  through  him,  and  he  groaned.  In  a  dazed  sort 
of  way  he  knew  it  was  the  last  of  all  his  dreams  of 
respectability,  that  from  now  on  there  was  nothing  for 
him  and  his  but  degradation  and  a  lower  place  in  life. 
To  do  him  justice,  he  did  not  care  so  much  for  himself; 
already  he  felt  that  he  himself  was  doomed,  that  he  could 
never  expect  to  shake  off  the  terrible  habit  which  had 
grown  to  be  part  of  his  life, —  unless,  he  thought,  unless, 
as  the  Bishop  had  said  —  by  the  blow  of  God.  He 
paled  to  think  what  that  might  mean.  God  had  so 
many  ways  of  striking  blows  unknown  to  man.  But 
for  his  daughters  —  he  loved  them,  drunkard  though  he 
was.  He  was  proud  of  their  breeding,  their  beauty, 
their  name.  If  he  could  only  go  and  give  them  a 
chance  —  if  the  blow  would  only  fall  and  take  him ! 

The  sun  was  warm.  He  grew  sleepy.  He  remem- 
hered  afterwards  that  he  fell  out  of  his  chair  and  that 
he  could  not  arise.  ...  It  was  a  nice  place  to 
sleep  anyway.  ...  A  staggering  hound,  with 
scurviness  and  sores,  came  up  the  steps,  then  on  the 
porch,  and  licked  his  face.  .  . 

When  he  awoke  some  one  was  bathing  his  face  with 
cold  water  from  the  spring.  He  was  perfectly  sober 
and  he  knew  it  was  nearly  noon.  Then  he  heard  the 
person  say :  "  I  guess  you  are  all  right  now,  Marse 
Ned,  an'  I'm  thinkin'  its  the  last  drink  you'll  ever  take 
outen  that  jug." 


538        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWM 

His  astonishment  in  recognizing  that  the  voice  was  the 
voice  of  Mammy  Maria  did  not  keep  him  from  looking 
up  regretfully  at  sight  of  the  precious  broken  jug  and 
the  strong  odor  of  whiskey  pervading  the  air. 

How  delightful  the  odor  was ! 

He  sat  up  amazed,  blinking  stupidly. 

"  Aunt  Maria  —  in  heaven's  name  —  where  ?  " 

"Never  mind,  Marse  Ned  —  jes'  you  git  into  the 
buggy  now  an'  I'll  take  you  home.  You  see,  I've 
moved  everything  this  mohnin'  whilst  you  slept.  The 
last  load  is  gone  to  our  new  home. 

"What?"  he  exclaimed —"where? "  He  looked 
around  —  the  home  was  empty. 

"  I  thort  it  time  to  wake  you  up,"  she  went  on,  "  an' 
besides  I  wanter  talk  to  you  about  my  babies. 

"  You'll  onderstan'  all  that  when  you  see  the  home 
I've  bought  for  us  " —  she  said  simply.  "  We're  gwine 
to  it  now.  Git  in  the  buggy  "  ~-  and  she  helped  him  to 
arise. 

Then  Edward  Conway  guessed,  and  he  was  silent,  and 
without  a  word  the  old  woman  drove  him  out  of  the  di 
lapidated  gate  of  Millwood  toward  the  town. 

"  Mammy,"  he  began  as  if  he  were  a  boy  again  - 
"  Mammy,"  and  then  he  burst  into  tears. 

"  Don't  cry,  chile,"  said  the  old  woman  — "  it's  all 
behind  us  now.  I  saved  the  money  years  ago,  when  we 
all  wus  flush  —  an'  you  gave  me  so  much  when  you  had 
an'  wus  so  kind  to  me,  Marse  Ned.  I  saved  it.  We're 
gwine  to  reform  now  an'  quit  drinkin'.  We'se  gwine 
to  remove  to  another  spot  in  the  garden  of  the  Lord,  but 
the  Lord  is  gwine  with  us  an'  He  is  the  tower  of 


MAMMY  MARIA  589 

strength  —  the  tower  of  strength  to  them  that  trust 
Him — Amen.  But  I  must  have  my  babies — that's 
part  of  the  barg'in.  No  mill  for  them  —  oh,  Marse 
Ned,  to  think  that  'whilst  I  was  off,  fixin'  our  home  so 
nice  to  s'prize  you  all — wuckin'  my  fingers  off  to  git 
the  home  ready — you  let  them  devils  get  my  babies! 
Git  up  heah" — and  she  rapped  the  horse  down  the 
back  with  the  lines.  u  Hurry  up — I'm  gwine  after 
'em  es  soon  es  I  git  home." 

Con  way  could  only  bow  his  head  and  weep. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  a  large  coal-black  woman, 
her  head  tied  up  with  an  immaculately  white  handker 
chief,  with  a  white  apron  to  match  over  her  new  calico 
gown,  walked  into  the  mill  door.  She  passed  through 
Kingsley's  office,  without  giving  him  the  courtesy  of  a 
nod,  holding  her  head  high  and  looking  straight  before 
her.  A  black  thunder- cloud  of  indignation  sat  upon 
her  brow,  and  her  large  black  eyes  were  lit  up  with  a 
sarcastic  light. 

Before  Kingsley  could  collect  his  thoughts  she  had 
passed  into  the  big  door  of  the  main  room,  amid  the 
whirl  and  hum  of  the  machinery,  and  walking  straight 
to  one  of  the  spinning  frames,  she  stooped  and  gathered 
into  her  arms  the  beautiful,  fair- skinned  little  girl  who 
was  trying  in  vain  to  learn  the  tiresome  lesson  of  piec 
ing  the  ever-breaking  threads  of  the  bewildering,  whirl 
ing  bobbins. 

The  child  was  taken  so  by  surprise  that  she  screamed 
in  flight — not  being  able  to  hear  the  foot-fall  or  the 
voice  of  her  who  had  so  suddenly  folded  her  in  her  arms 


540        THE   BISHOP   OF   COTTONTOWN 

and  showered  kisses  on  her  face  and  hair.  Then,  seeing 
the  face,  she  shouted : 

u  It's  Mammy  Maria — oh,  it's  my  mammy !  "  and  she 
threw  her  arms  around  the  old  woman's  neck  and 
clung  there. 

"  Mammy's  baby — did  you  think  old  Mammy  dun 
run  off  an'  lef'  her  baby  ?  " 

But  Lily  could  only  sob  for  joy. 

Then  the  floor  manager  came  hurriedly  over — for 
the  entire  force  of  the  mill  had  ceased  to  work,  gazing 
at  the  strange  scene.  In  vain  he  gesticulated  his  pro 
tests — the  big  fat  colored  woman  walked  proudly  past 
him  with  Lily  in  her  arms. 

In  Kingsley's  office  she  stopped  to  get  Lily's  bonnet, 
while  the  little  girl  still  clung  to  her  neck,  .sobbing. 

Kingsley  stood  taking  in  the  scene  in  astonishment. 
He  adjusted  his  eye  glasses  several  times,  lilting  them 
with  the  most  pronounced  sarcastic  lilt  of  which  he  was 
capable. 

He  stepped  around  and  around  the  desk  in  agitated 
briskness. 

He  cleared  his  throat  and  jerked  his  pant  legs  up  and 
down.  And  all  the  time  the  fat  old  woman  stood  looking 
at  him,  with  the  thunder-cloud  on  her  brow  and  unex 
pressed  scorn  struggling  for  speech  in  her  eyes. 

"  Ah-liem  —  ah -ha  —  Aunt  Maria  "  for  Kingsley 
had  caught  on  to  the  better  class  of  Southern  ways — 
"  inform  me — ah,  what  does  all  this  mean  ?  " 

The  old  woman  drew  herself  up  proudly  and  replied 
with  freezing  politeness : 

"I   beg  yo'  pardon,  sah — but   I    was  not  a  wares,  that 


MAMMY  MARIA  oil 

I  had  any  nephew  in  the  mill,  or  was  related  to  anybody 
in  here,  sah.  I  hav'nt  rny  visitin'  cyard  with  me,  bat 
if  I  had  'em  heah  yju'd  find  my  entitlements,  on  readin', 
was  somethin'  lak  this:  Miss  Maria  Con  way,  of  Zion!" 

Kingsley  flushed,  rebuked.  Then  he  adjusted  his 
glasses  again  with  agitated  nervous  attempts  at  a  lilt. 
Then  he  struck  his  level  and  fell  back  on  his  natural  in 
stinct,  unmixed,  with  attempts  at  being  what  he  was 
not : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Conway  " — 

"  Git  my  entitlements  right,  please  sah.  I'm  the  only 
old  maid  lady  of  color  you  ever  seed  or  ever  will  see 
again.  Niggahs,  these  days,  lak  birds,  all  git  'em  a 
mate  some  way — but  I'm  Miss  Conway  of  Zion." 

"Ah,  beg  pardon,  Miss  Conway — Miss  Conway  of 
Zion.  And  where,  pray,  is  that  city,  Miss  Conway? 
I  may  have  to  have  an  officer  communicate  with  you." 

"With  pleasure,  sah — It's  a  pleasure  for  me  to  he'p 
people  find  a  place  dey'd  never  find  without  help — no 
— not  whilst  they're  a-workin'  the  life  out  of  innocent 
totsati'  babes — " 

Kingsley  flushed  hot,  angered  : 

"  What  do  you  mean,  old  woman  ?" 

"  The  ole  woman  means,"  she  said,  looking  him  stead 
ily  in  the  eye,  "that  you  are  dealin'  in  chile  slavery,  law 
or  no  law  ;  that  you're  down  heah  preachin'  one  thing  for 
niggahs  an'  practisin'  another  for  yo'  own  race;  that 
yo'  hair  frizzles  on  yo'  head  at  tho'rt  of  niggah  slavery, 
whilst  all  the  time  you  are  enslavin'  the  po'  little  whites 
that's  got  yo'  own  blood  in  their  veins.  An'  now  you 
wanter  know  what  I  come  for  ?  I  come  for  my  chile !" 


542          THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Kingsley  was  too  dumfounded  to  speak.  In  all  his 
life  never  bad  his  hypocrisy  been  knocked  to  pieces  so 
completely. 

"What  does  all  this  mean?"  asked  Jud  Carpenter 
rushing  hastily  into  the  room. 

"  Come  on  baby,"  said  the  old  woman  as  she  started 
toward  the  door.  "I've  got  a  home  for  us,  an'  whilst 
old  mammy  can  take  in  washin'  you'll  not  wuck  yo'  life 
out  with  these  people." 

Jud  broke  in  harshly :  "  Come,  ole  'oman, — you  put 
that  child  down.  You've  got  nothin'  to  support  her 
with." 

She  turned  on  him  quickly  :  "  I've  got  mo'  silver  tied 
up  in  ole  socks  that  the  Conways  give  me  in  slavery 
days  when  they  had  it  by  the  bushel,  than  sech  as  you 
ever  seed.  Got  nothin'?  Jus'  you  come  over  and  see 
the  little  home  I've  got  fixed  up  for  Marse  Ned  an'  the 
babies.  Got  nothin'?  See  these  arms?  Do  you  think 
they  have  forgot  how  to  cook  an'  wash  ?  Come  on,  baby 
—  we'll  be  gwine  home  —  Miss  Helen'll  come  later." 

"  Put  her  down,  old  woman,"  said  Carpenter  sternly. 
"You  can't  take  her  —  she's  bound  to  the  mill." 

"  Oh,  I  can't?  "  said  the  old  woman  as  she  walked  out 
with  Lily  —  "Can't  take  her.  Well,  jes'  look  at  me  an' 
see.  This  is  what  I  calls  Zion,  an'  the  Lam'  an'  the 
wolves  had  better  stay  right  where  they  are,"  she  re 
marked  dryly,  as  she  walked  off  carrying  Lily  in  her 
arms. 

Down  through  a  pretty  part  of  the  town,  away  from 
Cottontown,  she  led  the  little  girl,  laughing  now  and 


MAMMY  MARIA  543 

chatting  by  the  old  woman's  side,  a  bird  freed  from  a 
cage. 

"  And  you'll  bring  sister  Helen,  too?  "  asked  Lily. 

"  That  I  will,  pet, —  she'll  be  home  to-night." 
"  Oh,  Mamrny,  it's  so  good  to  have  you  again  —  so 
good,  and  I  thought  you  never  would  come." 

They  walked  away  from  Cottontown  and  past  pretty 
houses.  In  a  quiet  street,  with  oaks  and  elms  shading 
it,  she  entered  a  yard  in  which  stood  a  pretty  and  nicely 
painted  cottage.  Lily  clapped  her  hands  with  laughter 
when  she  found  all  her  old  things  there  —  even  her  pet 
dolls  to  welcome  her  —  all  in  the  cunningest  and  quaint 
est  room  imaginable.  The  next  room  was  her  father's, 
and  Mammy's  room  was  next  to  hers  and  Helen's.  She 
ran  out  only  to  run  into  her  father's  aims.  Small  as 
she  was,  she  saw  that  he  was  sober.  He  took  her  on  his 
lap  and  kissed  her. 

"  My  little  one,"  he  said  — "  my  little  one  " — 

"  Mammy,"  asked  the  little  girl  as  the  old  woman 
came  out — "how  did  you  get  all  this?" 

"Been  savin'  it  all  my  life,  chile  —  all  the  money 
yo'  blessed  mother  give  me  an'  all  I  earned  sence  I  was 
free.  I  laid  it  up  for  a  rainy  day  an'  now,  bless  God, 
it's  not  only  rainin'  but  sleetin'  an'  cold  an'  snowin'  be 
sides,  an'  so  I  went  to  the  old  socks.  It's  you  all's,  an' 
all  paid  fur,  an'  old  mammy  to  wait  on  you.  I'm  gwine 
to  go  after  Miss  Helen  before  the  mill  closes,  else  she'll 
be  gwine  back  to  Millwood,  knowin'  nothin'  of  all  this 
surprise  for  her.  No,  sah, —  nary  one  of  yo'  mother's 
chillun  shall  ever  wuck  in  a  mill." 

Conway  bowed  his  head.     Then  he  drew  Lily  to  him 


544         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

as  he  knelt  and  said:     "  Oh,  God  help  me  —  make  me 
a  man,  make  me  a  Conway  again." 

It  was  his  first  prayer  in  years  —  the  beginning  of  his 
reformation.  And  every  reformation  began  with  a 
prayer. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    DOUBLE    THAT    DIED 

TWO  hours  before  the  mill  closed  Richard  Travis 
came  hurriedly  into  the  mill  office.  There  had 
been  business  engagements  to  be  attended  to  in 
the  town  before  leaving  that  night  for  the  North,  and 
he  had  been  absent  from  the  mill  all  day.  Now  every 
thing  was  ready  even  to  his  packed  trunk  —  all  except 
Helen. 

"  He's  come  for  her,"  said  Jud  to  himself  as  he 
walked  over  to  the  superintendent's  desk. 

Then  amid  the  hum  and  the  roar  of  the  mill  he  bent 
his  head  and  the  two  whispered  low  and  earnestly  to 
gether.  As  Jud  talked  in  excited  whispers,  Travis  lit  a 
cigar  and  listened  coolly  —  to  Jud's  astonishment  — 
even  cynically.  |A  v 

;<  An'  what  you  reckin'  she  done  —  the  ole  'oman  ? 
Tuck  the  little  gyrl  right  out  of  my  ban's  an'  kerried  her 
home  —  marched  off  as  proud  as  ole  Queen  Victory." 

"  Home?     What  home?  "  asked  Travis. 

"  An'  that's  the  mischief  of  it,"  went  on  Jud.  "  I 
thort  she  was  lyin'  about  the  home,  an'  I  stepped  down 
there  at  noon  an'  I  hope  I  may  die  to-night  if  she  ain't 
got  'em  all  fixed  up  as  snug  as  can  be,  an'  the  Major 
is  there  as  sober  es  a  jedge,  an'  lookin'  like  a  gentleman 
an'  actin'  like  a  Conway.  Say,  but  you  watch  yo'  ban'. 
35  545 


546        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

That's  blood  that  won't  stan'  monkey  in'  with  when  it's 
in  its  right  mind.  An'  the  little  home  the  ole  'omana 
got,  she  bought  it  with  her  own  money,  been  savin'  it  all 
her  life  an'  now  " — 

"  What  did  you  say  to  her  this  morning?  "  asked 
Travis. 

"  Oh,  I  cussed  her  out  good  —  the  old  black  " 

A  peculiar  light  flashed  in  Richard  Travis'  eyes. 
Never  before  had  the  Whipper-in  seen  it.  It  was  as  if 
he  had  looked  up  and  seen  a  halo  around  the  moon. 

"  To  do  grand  things  —  to  do  grand  things  —  like 
that  —  negro  that  she  is  !  No  —  no  - —  of  course  you 
did  not  understand.  Our  moral  sense  is  gone  —  we  mill 
people.  It  is  atrophied  —  yours  and  mine  and  all  of  us 
—  the  soul  has  gone  and  mine?  My  God,  why  did  you 
give  it  back  to  me  now  —  this  ghost  soul  that  has  come 
to  me  with  burning  breath  ?  " 

Jud  Carpenter  listened  in  amazement  and  looked  at 
him  suspiciously.  He  came  closer  to  see  if  he  could 
smell  whiskey  on  his  breath,  but  Travis  looked  at  him 
calmly  as  he  went  on :  "  Why,  yes,  of  course  you  cursed 
her  —  how  could  you  understand  ?  How  could  you 
know  —  you,  born  soulless,  know  that  you  had  witnessed 
something  which,  what  does  the  old  preacher  call  him 
- —  the  man  Jesus  Christ  —  something  He  would  have 
stopped  and  blessed  her  for.  A  slave  and  she  saved  it 
for  her  master.  A  negro  and  she  loved  little  children 
where  we  people  of  much  intellect  and  a  higher  civiliza 
tion  and  Christianity  —  eh,  Jud,  Christians  " —  and  he 
laughed  so  strangely  that  Jud  took  a  turn  around  the 
room  watching  Travis  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes. 


THE  DOUBLE  THAT  DIED  547 

<€  Oh  —  and  you  cursed  her !  " 

Jud  nodded.  "  An'  to-morrow  I'll  go  an'  fetch  the 
little  'un  back.  Why  she's  signed  —  she's  our'n  for 
five  years." 

Travis  turned  quickly  and  Jud  dodged  under  the 
same  strange  light  that  showed  again  in  his  eyes.  Then 
he  laid  his  hand  on  Jud's  arm  and  said  simply:  "  No 
—  no  —  you  will  not !  " 

Jud  looked  at  him  in  open  astonishment. 

Travis  puffed  at  his  cigar  as  he  said: 

"  Don't  study  me  too  closely.  Things  have  happened 
-  have  happened,  I  tell  you  —  my  God !  we  are  all 
double  —  that  is  if  we  are  anything  —  two  halves  to 
us  —  and  my  half — my  other  half,  got  lost  till  the 
other  night  and  left  this  aching,  pitiful,  womanly  thing 
behind,  that  bleeds  to  the  touch  and  has  tears.  Why, 
man,  I  am  either  an  angel,  a  devil,  or  both.  Don't  you 
go  there  and  touch  that  little  child,  nor  thrust  your 
damned  moral  Caliban  monstrosity  into  that  sweet  isle, 
nor  break  up  with  your  seared  conscience  the  glory  of 
that  unselfish  act.  If  you  do  I'll  kill  you,  Jud  Carpen 
ter  —  I'll  kill  you  !  " 

Jud  turned  and  walked  to  the  water  bucket,  took  a 
drink  and  squirted  it  through  his  teeth. 

He  was  working  for  thinking  time :  "  He's  crazy  — 
he's  sho'  crazy — "  he  said  to  himself.  Coming  back, 
he  said: 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Travis  —  but  the  oldes'  gyrl  — 
what  —  what  about  her,  you  know  ?  " 

"  She's  mine,  isn't  she  ?  I've  won  her  —  outgeneraled 
the  others  —  by  brains  and  courage.  She  should  be- 


548        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

long  to  my  harem  —  to  my  band  —  as  the  stallion  of 
the  plains  when  he  beats  off  with  tooth  and  hoof  and 
neck  of  thunder  his  rival,  and  takes  his  mares." 

Jud  nodded,  looking  at  him  quizzically. 

"  Well,  what  about  it?  "  asked  Travis. 

"  Nothin'  —  only  this  " —  then  he  lowered  his  voice 
as  he  came  nearer  — "  the  ole  'oman  will  be  after  her  in 
an  hour  —  an'  she'll  take  her  —  tell  her  all.  Maybe 
you'll  see  somethin'  to  remind  you  of  Jesus  Christ  in 
that." 

Travis  smiled. 

"  Well,"  went  on  Jud,  "  you'd  better  take  her  now  — 
while  the  whole  thing  has  played  into  yo'  hands;  but 
she  —  the  oldes'  gyrl  —  she  don't  know  the  ole  'oman's 
come  back  an'  made  her  a  home;  that  her  father  is  sober 
an'  there  with  her  little  sister,  that  Clay  is  away  an' 
ain't  deserted  her.  She  don't  know  anything,  an'  when 
you  set  her  out  in  that  empty  house,  deserted,  her  folks 
all  deserted  her,  as  she'll  think,  don't  you  know  she'll 
go  to  the  end  of  the  worl'  with  you  ?  " 

"  Well  ?  "  asked  Travis  as  he  smiled  calmly. 

"  Well,  take  her  and  thank  Jud  Carpenter  for  the 
Queen  of  the  Valley  —  eh  ?  "  and  he  laughed  and  tried 
to  nudge  Travis  familiarly,  but  the  latter  moved  away. 

"  I'll  take  her,"  at  last  he  said. 

"  She'll  go  to  The  Gaffs  with  you  " —  went  on  Jud. 
"  There  she's  safe.  Then  to-night  you  can  drive  her 
to  the  train  at  Lenox,  as  we  told  Biggers." 

He  came  over  and  whispered  in  Travis's  ear. 

"That  worked  out  beautifully,"  said  Travis  after 
a  while,  "  but  I'll  not  trust  her  to  you  or  to  Charley 


THE  DOUBLE  THAT  DIED  549 

Biggers.  I'll  take  her  myself  —  she's  mine  —  Richard 
Travis's  —  mine  —  mine!  I  who  have  been  buffeted 
and  abused  by  Fate,  given  all  on  earth  I  do  not  want, 
and  denied  the  one  thing  I'd  die  for;  I'll  show  them 
who  they  are  up  against.  I'll  take  her,  and  they  may 
talk  and  rave  and  shoot  and  be  damned !  " 

His  old  bitterness  was  returning.     His  face  flushed: 

"  That's  the  way  you  love  to  hear  me  talk,  isn't  it  — 
to  go  on  and  say  I'll  take  her  and  do  as  I  please  with 
her,  and  if  it  pleases  me  to  marry  her  I'll  set  her  up  over 
them  all  —  heh?  " 

Jud  nodded. 

"  That's  one  of  me,"  said  Travis  — "  the  old  one. 
This  is  the  new."  And  he  opened  the  back  of  his  watch 
where  a  tiny  lock  of  Alice  Westmore's  auburn  hair  lay: 
"  Oh,  if  I  were  only  worthy  to  kiss  it !  " 

He  walked  into  the  mill  and  down  to  the  little  room 
where  Helen  sat.  He  stood  a  while  at  the  door  and 
watched  her  —  the  poise  of  the  beautiful  head,  the 
cheeks  flushed  with  the  good  working  blood  that  now 
flowed  through  them,  the  hair  falling  with  slight  dis 
order,  a  stray  lock  of  it  dashed  across  her  forehead  and 
setting  off  the  rest  of  it,  darker  and  deeper,  as  a  cloud 
let,  inlaid  with  gold,  the  sunset  of  her  cheeks. 

His  were  the  eyes  of  a  connoisseur  when  it  came  to 
women,  and  as  he  looked  he  knew  that  every  line  of  her 
was  faultless;  the  hands  slender  and  beautifully  high 
born  ;  the  fingers  tapering  with  that  artistic  slope  of  the 
tips,  all  so  plainly  visible  now  that  they  were  at  work. 
One  foot  was  thrust  out,  slender  with  curved  and  high 
instep.  He  flushed  with  pride  of  her  —  his  eyes  bright- 


550        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

ened  and  he  smiled  in  the  old  ironical  way,  a  smile  of 
dare-doing,  of  victory. 

He  walked  in  briskly  and  with  a  business-like,  forward 
alertness.  She  looked  up,  paled,  then  flushed. 

"  Oh,  I  was  hoping  so  you  had  forgotten,"  she  said 
tremblingly. 

He  smiled   kindly :     "  I  never  forget." 

She  put  up  one  hand  to  her  cheek  and  rested  her  head 
on  it  a  moment  in  thought. 

He  came  up  and  stood  deferentially  by  her  side,  look 
ing  down  on  her,  on  her  beautiful  head.  She  half 
crouched,  expecting  to  hear  something  banteringly  com 
plimentary  ;  bold,  commonplace  —  to  feel  even  the  touch 
of  his  sensual  hand  on  her  hair,  on  her  cheek  and  My 
Queen  —  my  Queen! 

After  a  while  she  looked  up,  surprised.  The  excite 
ment  in  her  eyes  —  the  half-doubting  —  half-yielding 
fight  there,  of  ambition,  and  doubt,  and  the  stubborn 
wrong  of  it  all,  of  her  hard  lot  and  bitter  life,  of  the 
hidden  splendor  that  might  lie  beyond,  and  yet  the  ter 
rible  doubt,  the  fear  that  it  might  end  in  a  living  death 
-  these,  fighting  there,  lit  up  her  eyes  as  candles  at  an 
altar  of  love.  Then  the  very  difference  of  his  attitude, 
as  he  stood  there,  struck  her, —  the  beautiful  dignity  of 
his  face,  his  smile.  She  saw  in  an  instant  that  sensual 
ism  had  vanished  —  there  was  something  spiritual  which 
she  had  never  seen  before.  A  wave  of  trust,  in  her  utter 
helplessness,  a  feeling  of  respect,  of  admiration,  swept 
over  her.  She  arose  quickly,  wondering  at  her  own  de 
cision. 

He  bowed  low,  and  there  was  a  ringing  sweetness  in 


THE  DOUBLE  THAT  DIED  551 

his  voice  as  he  said :  "  I  have  come  for  you,  Helen  • — 
if  you  wish  to  go." 

"  I  will  go,  Richard  Travis,  for  I  know  now  you  will 
do  me  no  harm." 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  learn  to  love  me  ?  " 

She  met  his  eyes  steadily,  bravely :  "  That  was  never 
in  the  bargain.  That  is  another  thing.  This  is  barter 
and  trade  —  the  last  ditch  rather  than  starvation,  death. 
This  is  the  surrender  of  the  earthen  fort,  the  other  the 
glory  of  the  ladder  leading  to  the  skies.  Understand 
me,  you  have  not  asked  for  fliat  —  it  is  with  me  and 
God,  who  made  me  and  gave  it.  Let  it  stay  there  and 
go  back  to  him.  You  offer  me  bread  J' — 

"  But  may  it  not  turn  into  a  stone,  an  exquisite,  pure 
diamond?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  sadly.     She  shook  her  head. 

"  Diamonds  are  not  made  in  a  day." 

The  light  Jud  Carpenter  saw  flashed  in  his  eyes :  "  I 
have  read  of  one  somewhere  who  turned  water  into  wine 

—  and  that  was  as  difficult." 

"  If  —  if  -  '  she  said  gently  — "  if  you  had  always 
been  this  —  if  you  would  always  be  this  " — 

"  A  woman  knows  a  man  as  a  rose  knows  light,"  he 
said  simply  —  "as  a  star  knows  the  sun.  But  we  men 

—  being  the  sun  and  the  star,  we  are  blinded  by  our 
own  light.     Come,  you  may  trust  me,  Sweet  Rose." 

She  put  her  hand  in  his.  He  took  it  half  way  to  his 
mouth. 

"  Don't,"  she  said  — "  please  —  that  is  the  old  way." 
He  lowered  it  gently,  reverently,  and  they  walked  out. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    DYING    LION 

46 T  ILY  has  been  taken  home,"  He  said  as  she 
^  walked  out  with  him.  "  She  is  safe  and  will 
be  cared  for  —  so  will  be  your  father.  I  will 
explain  it  to  you  as  we  drive  to  Millwood." 

She  wondered,  but  her  cheeks  now  burned  so  that  all 
her  thoughts  began  to  flow  back  upon  herself  as  a  tide, 
flowing  inland,  and  forgetting  the  sea  of  things.  Her 
heart  beat  faster  —  she  felt  guilty  —  of  what,  she  could 
not  say. 

Perhaps  the  guilt  of  the  sea  for  being  found  on  the 
land. 

The  common  mill  girls  —  were  they  not  all  looking 
at  her,  were  they  not  all  wondering,  did  they  not  all 
despise  her,  her  who  by  birth  and  breeding  should  be 
above  them  ?  Her  lips  tightened  at  the  thought  —  she 
who  was  above  them  —  now  —  now  —  they  to  be  above 
her  —  poor-born  and  common  as  they  were  —  if  —  if 
—  he  betrayed  her. 

He  handed  her  quietly  —  reverently  even,  into  the 
buggy,  and  the  trotters  whirled  her  away;  but  not  be 
fore  she  thought  she  saw  the  mill  girls  peeping  at  her 
through  the  windows,  and  nodding  their  heads  at  each 
other,  and  some  of  them  smiling  disdainfully.  And  yet 
when  she  looked  closely  there  was  no  one  at  the  windows, 

552 


THE  DYING  LION  553 

The  wind  blew  cool.  Travis  glanced  at  her  dress,  her 
poorly  protected  shoulders. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  too  cold  after  coming  from 
a  warm  mill  and  going  with  the  speed  we  go." 

He  reached  under  the  seat  and  drew  out  a  light  over 
coat.  He  threw  it  gently  over  her  shoulders,  driving, 
in  his  masterful  way,  with  the  reins  in  one  hand. 

He  did  not  speak  again  until  he  reached  Millwood. 

The  gate  was  down,  bits  of  strewn  paper,  straw  and 
all  the  debris  of  things  having  been  moved,  were  there. 
The  house  was  dark  and  empty,  and  Helen  uttered  a  sur 
prised  cry: 

"Why,  what  does  all  this  mean?  Oh,  has  anything 
happened  to  them  ?  " 

She  clung  in  pallor  to  Travis's  arm. 

"  Be  calm,"  he  said,  "  I  will  explain.  They  are  all 
safe.  They  have  moved.  Let  us  go  in,  a  moment." 

He  drew  the  mares  under  a  shed  and  hitched  them, 
throwing  blankets  over  them  and  unchecking  their  heads. 
Then  he  lifted  her  out.  How  strong  he  was,  and  how 
like  a  limp  lily  she  felt  in  the  grasp  of  his  hands. 

The  moon  flashed  out  now  and  then  from  clouds  scur 
rying  fast,  adding  a  ghostliness  to  the  fading  light,  in 
which  the  deserted  house  stood  out  amid  shadowy  trees 
and  weeds  tall  and  dried.  The  rotten  steps  and  bal 
cony,  even  the  broken  bottles  and  pieces  of  crockery 
shone  bright  in  the  fading  light.  Tears  started  to  her 
eyes: 

"  Nothing  is  here  —  nothing !  " 

Travis  caught  her  hand  in  the  dark  and  she  clung  to 
him.  A  hound  stepped  out  from  under  the  steps  and 


554        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

licked  her  other  hand.  She  jumped  and  gave  a  little 
shriek.  Then,  when  she  understood,  she  stroked  the 
poor  thing's  head,  its  eyes  staring  hungrily  in  the  dim 
light. 

She  followed  Travis  up  the  steps.  Within,  he  struck 
a  match,  and  she  saw  the  emptiness  of  it  all  —  the 
broken  plastering  and  the  paper  torn  off  in  spots,  a 
dirty,  littered  floor,  and  an  old  sofa  and  a  few  other 
things  left,  too  worthless  to  be  moved. 

She  held  up  bravely,  but  tears  were  running  down  her 
cheeks.  Travis  struck  another  match  to  light  a  lamp 
which  had  been  forgotten  and  left  on  the  mantel.  He 
attempted  to  light  it,  but  something  huge  and  black 
swept  by  and  extinguished  it.  Helen  shrieked  again, 
and  coming  up  timidly  seized  his  arm  in  the  dark.  He 
could  feel  her  heart  beating  excitedly  against  it. 

He  struck  another  match. 

"  Don't  be  uneasy,  it  is  nothing  but  an  owl." 

The  light  was  turned  up  and  showed  an  owl  sitting  on 
the  top  of  an  old  tester  that  had  formerly  been  the 
canopy  of  her  grandmother's  bed. 

The  owl  stared  stupidly  at  them  —  turning  its  head 
solemnly. 

Helen  laughed  hysterically. 

"  Now,  sit  down  on  the  old  sofa,"  he  said.  "  There 
is  much  to  say  to  you.  We  are  now  on  the  verge  of  a 
tragedy  or  a  farce,  or — 

"  Sometimes  plays  end  well,  where  all  are  happy,  do 
they  nob?"  she  asked,  smiling  hysterically  and  sitting 
by  him,  but  looking  at  the  uncanny  owl  beyond.  She 
rras  silent,  then: 


THE  DYING  LION  555 

"  Oh,  I  —  I  —  don't  you  think  I  am  entitled  now  — 
to  have  something  end  happily  —  now  —  once  —  in  my 
life?" 

He  pitied  her  and  was  silent. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said  after  a  while,  "  you  have  moved 
father  and  Lily  to  —  to  —  one  of  the  Cottontown  cot 
tages?  " 

He  arose :  "  In  a  little  while  I  will  tell  you,  but  now 
we  must  have  something  to  eat  first  —  you  see  I  had  this 
lunch  fixed  for  our  journey."  He  went  out,  over  to  his 
lap-robe  and  cushion,  and  brought  a  basket  and  placed 
it  on  an  old  table. 

"  You  may  begin  now  and  be  my  housekeeper,"  he 
smiled.  "  Isn't  it  time  you  were  learning?  I  daresay 
I'll  not  find  you  a  novice,  though." 

She  flushed  and  smiled.  She  arose  gracefully,  and 
her  pretty  hands  soon  had  the  lunch  spread,  Travis 
helping  her  awkwardly. 

It  was  a  pretty  picture,  he  thought  —  her  flushed 
girlish  face,  yet  matronly  ways.  He  watched  her  slyly, 
with  a  sad  joyousness  in  his  eyes,  drinking  it  in,  as  one 
who  had  hungered  long  for  contentment  and  peace,  such 
as  this. 

She  had  forgotten  everything  else  in  the  housekeep 
ing.  She  even  laughed  some  at  his  awkwardness  and 
scolded  him  playfully,  for,  man-like,  forgetting  a  knife 
and  fork.  It  was  growing  chilly,  and  while  she  set  the 
lunch  he  went  out  and  brought  in  some  wood.  Soon  a 
fine  oak  fire  burned  in  the  fireplace. 

They  sat  at  the  old  table  at  last,  side  by  side,  and  ate 
the  delightful  lunch.  Under  the  influence  of  the  bottle 


556        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

of  claret,  from  The  Gaffs  cellar,  her  courage  came  and 
her  animation  was  beautiful  to  him  —  something  that 
seemed  more  of  girlhood  than  womanhood.  He  drank  it 
all  in  —  hungry  —  heart-hungry  for  comfort  and  love ; 
and  she  saw  and  understood. 

Never  had  he  enjoyed  a  lunch  so  much.  Never  had 
he  seen  so  beautiful  a  picture! 

When  it  was  over  he  lit  a  cigar,  and  the  fine  odor 
filled  the  old  room. 

Then  very  quietly  he  told  her  the  story  of  Mamm^ 
Maria's  return,  of  the  little  home  she  had  prepared  for 
them;  of  her  coming  that  day  to  the  mill  and  taking 
Lily,  and  that  even  now,  doubtless,  she  was  there  look 
ing  for  the  elder  sister. 

She  did  not  show  any  surprise  —  only  tears  came 
slowly :  "  Do  you  know  that  I  felt  that  something  of 
this  kind  would  happen  ?  Dear  Mammy  —  dear,  dear 
Mammy  Maria !  She  will  care  for  Lily  and  father." 

She  could  stand  it  no  longer.  She  burst  into  childish 
tears  and,  kneeling,  she  put  her  beautiful  head  on 
Travis's  lap  as  innocently  as  if  it  were  her  old  nurse's, 
and  she,  a  child,  seeking  consolation. 

He  stroked  her  hair,  her  cheek,  gently.  He  felt  his 
lids  grow  moist  and  a  tenderness  he  never  had  known 
came  over  him. 

"  I  have  told  you  this  for  a  purpose,"  he  whispered 
in  her  ear  — "  I  will  take  you  to  them,  now." 

She  raised  her  wet  eyes  —  flushed.  He  watched  her 
closely  to  see  signs  of  any  battle  there.  And  then  his 
heart  gave  a  great  leap  and  surged  madly  as  she  said 
calmly :  "  No  —  no  —  it  is  too  late  —  too  late  —  now. 


THE  DYING  LION  557 

I  —  could  —  never  explain.  I  will  go  with  you,  Rich 
ard  Travis,  to  the  end  of  the  world." 

He  sat  very  still  and  looked-  at  her  kneeling  there  as 
a  child  would,  both  hands  clasped  around  his  knee,  and 
looking  into  his  eyes  with  hers,  gray-brown  and  glori 
ously  bright.  They  were  calm  —  so  calm,  and  deter 
mined  and  innocent.  They  thrilled  him  with  their  trust 
and  the  royal  beauty  of  her  faith.  There  came  to  him 
an  upliftedness  that  shook  him. 

"  To  the  end  of  the  world,"  he  said  — "  ah,  you  have 
said  so  much  —  so  much  more  than  I  could  ever  de 
serve." 

"  I  have  stood  it  all  as  long  as  I  could.  My  father's 
drunkenness,  I  could  stand  that,  and  Mammy's  forsak 
ing  us,  as  I  thought  —  that,  too.  When  the  glory  of 
work,  of  earning  my  own  living  opened  itself  to  me, — 
Oh,  I  grasped  it  and  was  happy  to  think  that  I  could 
support  them !  That's  why  your  temptation  —  why  - 

J  55 

He  winced  and  was  silent. 

"  They  were  nothing,"  she  went  on,  "  but  to  be  for 
gotten,  forsaken  by  —  by  — " 

"  Clay?  "  he  helped  her  say. 

"  Oh,"  she  flushed  — "  yes, —  that  was  part  of  it,  and 
then  to  see  —  to  see  —  you  so  different  —  with  this 
strange  look  on  you  —  something  which  says  so  plainly 
to  me  that  —  that  —  oh,  forgive  me,  but  do  you  know 
I  seem  to  see  you  dying  —  dying  all  the  time,  and  now 
you  are  so  changed  —  indeed  —  oh  please  understand 
me  —  I  feel  differently  toward  you  —  as  I  would  toward 
one  dying  for  sympathy  and  love." 


558        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

She  hid  her  face  again.     He  felt  his  face  grow  hot. 
He  sat  perfectly  still,  listening.     At  last  she  said: 
"  When  I  came  here  to-night  and  saw  it  all  —  empty 

—  I  thought :     4  This  means  I  am  deserted  by  all  —  he 
has  brought  me  here  to  see  it  —  to  know  it.     What  can 
I  do  but  go  with  him?     It  is  all  that  is  left.     Did  I 
make  myself?     Did  I  give  myself  this  fatal  beauty  — 
for  you  say  I  am  beautiful.     And  did  I  make  you  with 
your  strength  —  your  conquering  strength,  and  —  Oh, 
could   I  overcome  my  environment  ?  '     But  now  —  now 

—  it  is  different  —  and  if  I  am  lost,  Richard  Trftvis  — 
it  will  be  your  .fault  —  yours  and  God's." 

He  stroked  her  hair.  He  was  pale  and  that  strange 
light  which  Jud  Carpenter  had  seen  in  his  eyes  that 
afternoon  blazed  now  with  a  nervous  flash. 

"  That  is  my  story,"  she  cried.  "  It  is  now  too  late 
even  for  God  to  come  and  tell  me  through  you  —  now 
since  we  —  you  and  I  —  oh,  how  can  I  say  it  —  you 
have  taken  me  this  way  —  you,  so  strong  and  brave  and 

—  grand  — " 

He  flushed  hot  with  shame.  He  put  his  hand  gently 
over  her  mouth. 

"  Hush  —  hush  —  child  —  my    God  —  you   hurt   me 

—  shame  me  —  you  know  not  what  you  say." 

"  I  can  understand  all  —  but  one  thing,"  she  went  on 
after  a  while.  "  Why  have  you  brought  me  to  this  — 
here  —  at  night  alone  with  you  —  to  tell  me  this  —  to 
make  me  —  me  —  oh,  change  in  my  feelings  —  to  you? 
Oh,  must  I  say  it  ?  "  she  cried  — "  tell  you  the  truth  — 
that  —  that  —  now  since  I  see  you  as  you  are  —  I  —  I, 

—  I  am  willing  to  go !  " 


THE  DYING  LION  559 

"  Hush,  Helen,  my  child,  my  God  —  don't  crush  me 

—  don't  —  listen,   child  —  listen !     I   am   a  villain  —  a 
doubly-dyed,   infamous   one  —  when   you   hear  " — 

She  shook  her  head  and  put  one  of  her  pretty  hands 
over  his  mouth. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  all,   first.     Let  me  finish.     After 

all  this,  why  have  you  brought  me  here  to  tell  me  this, 

when  all  you  had  to  do  was  to  keep  silent  a  few  more 

hours  —  take  me  on  to  the  station,  as  you  said  —  and 

-  and  — " 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  he  said  gently.  "  Yes,  you  have 
asked  the  question  needed  to  be  explained.  Now  hear 
from  my  own  lips  my  infamy  —  not  all  of  it,  God  knows 
—  that  would  take  the  night ;  but  this  peculiar  part  of 
it.  Do  you  know  why  I  love  to  stroke  your  hair,  why 
I  love  to  touch  it,  to  touch  you,  to  look  into  your  eyes ; 
why  I  should  love,  next  to  one  thing  of  all  earth,  to  take 
you  in  my  arms  and  smother  you  —  kill  you  with  kisses 

—  your  hair,  your  eyes,  your  mouth  ?  " 
She  hid  her  face,  crimson. 

"  Did  no  one  tell  you,  ever  tell  you  —  how  much  you 
look  like  your  cousin  " —  he  stopped  —  he  could  not  say 
the  word,  but  she  guessed.  White  with  shame,  she 
sprang  up  from  him,  startled,  hurt.  Her  heart  tight 
ened  into  a  painful  thing  which  pricked  her. 

"  Then  —  then  —  it  is  not  I  —  but  my  Cousin  Ali»> 

—  oh  —  I  —  yes  —  I      did      hear  —  I      should      have 
known  " —  it  came  from  her  slowly  and  with  a  quiver 
ing  tremor. 

He  seized  her  hands  and  drew  her  back  down  by  him 
on  the  sofa. 


560        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  When  I  started  into  this  with  you  I  was  dead  — • 
dead.  My  soul  was  withered  within  me.  All  women 
were  my  playthings  —  all  but  one.  She  was  my 
Queen  —  my  wife  that  was  to  be.  I  was  dead,  my 
God  —  how  dead  I  was !  I  now  see  with  a  clearness  that 
is  killing  me ;  a  clearness  as  of  one  waking  from  sleep 
and  feeling,  in  the  first  wave  of  conscience,  that  incon 
ceivable  tenderness  which  hurts  so  —  hurts  because  it  is 
tender  and  before  the  old  hard  consciousness  of  material 
things  come  again  to  toughen.  How  dead  I  was,  you 
may  know  when  I  say  that  all  this  web  now  around  you 
—  from  your  entrance  into  the  mill  till  now  —  here 
to-night  —  in  my  power  —  body  and  soul  —  that  it  was 
all  to  gratify  this  dead  sea  fruit  of  my  soul,  this  thing 
in  me  I  cannot  understand,  making  me  conquer  women 
all  my  life  for  —  oh,  as  a  lien  would,  to  kill,  though  not 
hungry,  and  then  lie  by  them,  dying,  and  watch  them, — • 
dead  !  Then  this  same  God  —  if  any  there  be  —  He 
who  you  say  put  more  on  you  than  you  could  bear  — 
He  struck  me,  as,  well  —  no  —  He  did  not  strike  —  but 
ground  me,  ground  me  into  dust  —  took  her  out  of  my 
life  and  then  laid  my  soul  before  me  so  naked  that  the 
very  sunlight  scorches  it.  What  was  it  the  old  preacher 
said  —  that  '  touch  of  God  '  business?  '  Touch  — '  " 
he  laughed,  "  not  touch,  but  blow,  I  say  —  a  blow  that 
ground  me  into  star-dust  and  flung  me  into  space,  my 
heart  a  burning  comet  and  my  soul  the  tail  of  it,  dis 
solving  before  my  very  eyes.  What  then  can  I,  a  lion, 
dying,  care  for  the  doe  that  crosses  my  path?  The 
beautiful  doe,  beautiful  even  as  you  are.  Do  you 
understand  me,  child  ?  " 


THE  DYING  LION  561 

She  scarcely  knew  what  she  did.  She  remembered 
only  the  terrible  empty  room.  The  owl  uncannily  turn 
ing  its  head  here  and  there  and  staring  at  her  with  its 
eyes,  yellow  in  the  firelight. 

She  dropped  on  the  floor  by  him  and  clung  again  to 
his  knees,  her  head  in  his  lap  in  pity  for  him. 

"  That  is  the  story  of  the  dying  lion,"  he  said  after 
a  while.  "  The  lion  who  worked  all  his  cunning  and  skill 
and  courage  to  get  the  beautiful  doe  in  his  power,  only 
to  find  he  was  dying  —  dying  and  could  not  eat.  Could 
you  love  a  dying  lion,  child?"  he  asked  abruptly  — 
"  tell  me  truly,  for  as  you  speak  so  will  I  act  —  would 
make  you  queen  of  all  the  desert." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  They  were  wet  with  tears. 
He  had  touched  the  pity  in  them.  She  saw  him  as  she 
had  never  seen  him  before.  All  her  fear  of  him  van 
ished,  and  she  was  held  by  the  cords  of  a  strange  fasci 
nation.  She  knew  not  what  she  did.  The  owl  looked 
at  her  queerly,  and  she  almost  sobbed  it  out,  hysterically : 

"  Oh,  I  could  —  love  —  you  —  you  —  who  are  so 
strong  and  who  suffer  —  suffer  so  "— 

"You  could  love  me?"  he  asked.  "Then,  then  I 
would  marry  you  to-night  —  now  —  if  —  if  —  that  un 
covering  —  that  touch  —  had  not  been  put  upon  me  to 
do  nobler  things  than  to  gratify  my  own  passion,  had 
not  shown  me  the  other  half  which  all  these  years  has 
been  dead  —  my  double."  He  was  silent. 

"  And  so  I  sent  to-day,"  he  began  after  a  while,  "  for 
a  friend  of  yours,  one  with  whom  you  can  be  happier 
than  —  the  dying  lion.  He  has  been  out  of  the  county 

—  sent  out  —  it  was  part  of  the  plan,  part  of  the  snare 
36 


562        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

of  the  lion  and  his  whelp.  And  so  I  sent  for  him  this 
morning,  feeling  the  death  blow,  you  know.  I  sent  him 
an  urgent  message,  to  meet  you  here  at  nine."  He 
glanced  at  his  watch.  "  It  is  past  that  now,  but  he 
had  far  to  ride.  He  will  come,  I  hope  —  ah,  listen !  " 

They  heard  the  steps  of  a  rider  coming  up  the  gravel 
walk.  " 

"  It  is  he,"  said  Travis  calmly  — "  Clay." 

She  sprang  up  quickly,  half  defiantly.  The  old  Con- 
way  spirit  flashed  in  her  eyes  and  she  came  to  him  tall 
and  splendid  and  with  half  a  look  of  protest,  half  com 
mand,  and  yet  in  it  begging,  pleading,  yearning  for  — 
she  knew  not  what. 

"Why —  why  —  did  you?  Oh,  you  do  not  know.! 
You  do  not  understand  —  love  —  love  —  can  it  be  won 
this  way  —  apprenticed,  bargained  —  given  away  ?  " 

"  You  must  go  with  him,  he  loves  you.  He  will  make 
you  happy.  I  am  dying  —  is  not  part  of  me  already 
dead?" 

For  answer  she  came  to  him,  closer,  and  stood  by  him 
as  one  who  in  war  stands  by  a  comrade  shot  through 
and  ready  to  fall. 

He  put  his  arms  around  her  and  drew  her  to  him 
closer,  and  she  did  not  resist  —  but  as  a  child  would, 
hers  also  she  wound  around  his  neck  and  whispered : 

"  My  lion !  Oh,  kill  me  —  kill  me  —  let  me  die  with 
you ! " 

"  Child  —  my  precious  one  —  my  —  oh,  God,  and 
you  —  forgive  me  this.  But  let  me  kiss  you  once  and 
dream  —  dream  it  is  she  " — 

She  felt  his  kisses  on  her  hair,  her  eyes. 


THE  DYING  LION  563 

"  Good-bye  -  -  Alice  —  Alice  —  good-bye  —  for 
ever—" 

He  released  her,  but  she  clung  to  him  sobbing.  Her 
head  lay  on  his  breast,  and  she  shook  in  the  agony  of 
it  all. 

"  You  will  forgive  me,  some  day  —  when  you  know 
—  how  I  loved  her,"  he  gasped,  white  and  with  a  bitter 
light  in  his  face. 

She  looked  up :  "I  would  die,"  she  said  simply, 
"  for  a  love  like  that." 

They  heard  the  steps  of  a  man  approaching  the  house. 
She  sat  down  on  the  old  sofa  pale,  trembling  and  with 
bitterness  in  her  heart. 

Travis  walked  to  the  door  and  opened  it: 

"  Come  in,  Clay,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I  am  glad  that 
my  man  found  you.  We  have  been  waiting  for  you." 

"  I  finished  that  survey  and  came  as  fast  as  I  could. 
Your  man  rode  on  to  The  Gaffs,  but  I  came  here  as  you 
wrote  me  to  do,"  and  Clay  came  in  quietly,  speaking 
as  he  walked  to  the  fire. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  DEATH 

HE  CAME  in  as  naturally  as  if  the  house  were  still 
inhabited,*  though  he  saw  the  emptiness  of  it 
all,  and  guessed  the  cause.  But  when  he  saw 
Helen,  a  flushed  surprise  beamed  through  his  eyes  and  he 
gave  her  his  hand. 

"  Helen !  —  why,  this  is  unexpected  —  quite  unusual, 
I  must  say." 

She  did  not  speak,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand,  but 
smiled  sadly.  It  meant :  "  Mr.  Travis  will  tell  you  all. 
I  know  nothing.  It  is  all  his  planning." 

Clay  sat  down  in  an  old  chair  by  the  fire  and  warmed 
his  hands,  looking  thoughtfully  at  the  two,  now  and  then, 
and  wonderingly.  He  was  not  surprised  when  Travis 
said: 

"  I  sent  for  you  hurriedly,  as  one  who  I  knew  was 
a  friend  of  Miss  Conway.  A  crisis  has  arisen  in  her 
affairs  to-day  in  which  it  is  necessary  for  her  friends  to 
act." 

"  Why,  yes,  I  suppose  I  can  guess,"  said  Clay 
thoughtfully  and  watching  Helen  closely  all  the  while 
as  he  glanced  around  the  empty  room.  "  I  was  only 
waiting.  Why,  you  see  — " 

Helen  flushed  scarlet  and  looked  appealingly  at 
Travis.  But  he  broke  in  on  Clay  without  noticing  her. 

564 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  DEATH          565 

"  Yes,  I  knew  you  were  only  waiting.  I  think  I  un 
derstand  you,  but  you  know  the  trouble  with  nearly 
every  good  intention  is  that  it  waits  too  long." 

Clay  reddened. 

Helen  arose  and,  coming  over,  stood  by  Travis,  her 
face  pale,  her  eyes  shining.  "  I  beg  —  I  entreat  — 
please,  say  no  more.  Clay,"  she  said  turning  on  him 
with  flushed  face,  "  I  did  not  know  you  were  coming. 
I  did  not  know  where  you  were.  Like  all  the  others,  I 
supposed  you  too  had  —  had  deserted  me." 

"  Why,  I  was  sent  off  in  a  hurry  to  — "  he  started. 

"  Mr.  Travis  told  me  to-night,"  she  interrupted.  "  I 
understand  now.  But  really,  it  makes  no  difference  to 
me  now.  Since  —  since  - — 

"  Now  look  here,"  broke  in  Travis  with  feigned  light 
ness, — "  I  am  not  going  to  let  you  two  lovers  misunder 
stand  each  other.  I  have  planned  it  all  out  and  I  want 
you  both  to  make  me  happy  by  listening  to  one  older, 
one  who  admires  you  both  and  sincerely  wishes  to  see  you 
happy.  Things  have  happened  at  your  house,"  he  said 
addressing  Clay  — "  things  which  will  surprise  you  when 
you  reach  home  —  things  that  affect  you  and  me  and 
Miss  Conway.  Now  I  know  that  you  love  her,  and  have 
loved  her  a  long  time,  and  that  only  — " 

"  Only  our  poverty,"  said  Clay  thankfully  to  Travis 
for  breaking  the  ice  for  him. 

Helen    stood    up    quickly  —  a    smile    on    her    lips: 
"  Don't  you  both  think  that  before  this  bargain  and  sale 
goes  further  you  had  better  get  the  consent  of  the  one 
to  be  sold?  "     She  turned  to  Clay. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  have  queer  ideas  of  love  —  of 


566        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

winning  a  woman's  love  —  in  this  way  ?  And  you  " — 
she  said  turning  to  Travis  — "  Oh  you  know  better." 

Travis  arose  with  a  smile  half  joyous,  half  serious, 
and  Clay  was  so  embarrassed  that  he  mopped  his  brow 
as  if  he  were  plowing  in  the  sun. 

"  Why,  really,  Helen  —  I  —  you  know  —  I  have 
spoken  to  you  —  you  know,  and  but  for  my  — " 

"  Poverty  "  —  said  Helen  taking  up  the  word  • — 
"And  what  were  poverty  to  me,  if  I  loved  a  man?  I'd 
love  him  the  more  for  it.  If  he  were  dying  broken 
hearted,  wrecked  —  even  in  disgrace, — 

Travis  flushed  and  looked  at  her  admiringly,  while  the 
joyous  light  flashed  yet  deeper  in  his  eyes. 

"Come,"  he  said.  "  I  have  arranged  all.  I  am  not 
going  to  give  you  young  people  an  excuse  to  defer  your 
happiness  longer."  He  turned  to  Clay :  "  I  shall  show 
you  something  which  you  have  been  on  the  track  of  for 
some  time.  I  have  my  lantern  in  the  buggy,  and  we 
will  have  to  walk  a  mile  or  more.  But  it  is  pleasant  to 
night,  and  the  walk  will  do  us  all  good.  Come." 

They  both  arose  wonderingly  —  Helen  came  over  and 
put  her  hand  on  his  arm :  "  I  will  go,"  she  whispered, 
"  if  there  be  no  more  of  that  talk." 

He  smiled.  "  You  must  do  as  I  say.  Am  I  not  now 
your  guardian?  Bring  your  leathern  sack  with  your 
hammer  and  geological  tools,"  he  remarked  to  Clay. 

Clay  arose  hastily,  and  they  went  out  of  the  old  house 
and  across  the  fields.  Past  the  boundaries  of  Mill 
wood  they  walked,  Travis  silently  leading,  and  Clay 
following  with  Helen,  who  could  not  speak,  so  mo 
mentous  it  all  seemed.  She  saw  only  Travis's  fine 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  DEATH          567 

square  shoulders,  and  erect,  sinewy  form,  going  before 
them,  into  the  night  of  shadows,  of  trees,  of  rocks,  of 
the  great  peak  of  the  mountain,  silent  and  dark. 

He  did  not  speak.  He  walked  in  silent  thought. 
They  passed  the  boundary  line  of  Millwood,  and  then 
down  a  slight  ravine  he  led  them  to  the  ragged,  flinty 
hill,  on  which  the  old  preacher's  cabin  stood  on  their 
right. 

"  Now,"  he  said  stopping  — "  if  I  am  correct,  Clay, 
this  hill  is  the  old  Bishop's,"  pointing  to  his  right 
where  the  cabin  stood,  "  and  over  here  is  what  is  left  of 
Westmoreland.  This  gulch  divides  them.  This  range 
really  runs  into  Westmoreland,"  he  said  with  a  sweep  of 
his  hand  toward  it.  "Get  your  bearings,"  he  smiled 
to  Clay,  "  for  I  want  you  to  tell  whose  fortune  this  is." 

He  lit  his  lantern  and  walking  forward  struck  away 
some  weeds  and  vines  which  partially  concealed  the 
mouth  of  a  small  opening  in  the  hillside  caused  by  a 
landslide.  It  was  difficult  going  at  first,  but  as  they 
went  further  the  opening  grew  larger,  and  as  the  light 
flashed  on  its  walls,  Clay  stopped  in  admiration  and 
shouted : 

"  Look  —  look  —  there  it  is !  " 

Before  them  running  right  and  left  —  for  the  cave 
had  split  it  in  two,  lay  the  solid  vein  of  coal,  shining  in 
the  light,  and  throwing  back  splinters  of  ebony,  to  Clay 
more  beautiful  than  gold. 

Travis  watched  him  with  an  amused  smile  as  he  hastily 
took  off  his  satchel  and  struck  a  piece  off  the  ledge. 
Helen  stood  wondering,  looking  not  at  Clay,  but  at 


568         THE  B1SHOJP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Travis,  and  her  ey es  shone  brilliantly  and  full  of  proud 
splendor. 

Clay  forgot  that  they  were  there.  He  measured  the 
ledge.  He  chipped  off  piece  after  piece  and  examined 
it  closely.  "  I  never  dreamed  it  would  be  here,  in  this 
shape,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Look !  —  and  fully  eight 
feet,  solid.  This  hill  is  full  of  it.  The  old  preacher 
will  find  it  hard  to  spend  his  wealth." 

"  But  that  is  not  all,"  said  Travis ;  "  see  how  the 
dip  runs  —  see  the  vein  —  this  way."  He  pointed  to 
the  left. 

Clay  paled :  "  That  means  —  it  is  remarkable  — 
very  remarkable.  Why,  this  vein  should  not  have  been 
here.  It  is  too  low  to  be  in  the  Carboniferous." 
He  suddenly  stopped :  "  But  here  it  is  —  contrary  to 
all  my  data  and  —  and  —  why  really  it  takes  the  low 
range  of  the  poor  land  of  Westmoreland.  It  —  it  — 
will  make  me  rich." 

"You  haven't  seen  all,"  said  Travis — "look!" 
He  turned  and  walked  to  another  part  of  the  small  cave, 
where  the  bank  had  broken,  and  there  gleamed,  not  the 
black,  but  the  red —  the  earth  full  of  rich  ore. 

Clay  picked  up  one  eagerly. 

"  The  finest  iron  ore !  —  who  —  who  —  ever  heard  of 
such  a  freak  of  nature?  " 

"  And  the  lime  rock  is  all  over  the  valley,"  said 
Travis,  "  and  that  means,  coal,  iron  and  lime  — " 

"  Furnaces  —  why,  of  course  —  furnaces  and  wealth. 
Helen,  I  —  I  —  it  will  make  Westmoreland  rich.  Now, 
in  all  earnestness  —  in  all  sincerity  I  can  tell  you  — " 

"  Do   not   tell   me   anything,   Clay  —  please   do   not. 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  DEATH          569 

You  do  not  understand.  You  can  never  understand." 
Her  eyes  were  following  Travis,  who  had  walked  off 
pretending  to  be  examining  the  cave.  Then  she  gave 
a  shriek  which  sounded  frightfully  intense  as  it  echoed 
around. 

Travis  turned  quickly  and  saw  standing  between  him 
and  them  a  gaunt,  savage  thing,  with  froth  in  its  mouth 
and  saliva-dripping  lips.  At  first  he  thought  it  was  a 
panther,  so  low  it  crouched  to  spring;  but  almost  in 
stantly  he  recognized  Jud  Carpenter's  dog.  Then  it 
began  to  creep  uncertainly,  staggeringly  forward,  to 
ward  Clay  and  Helen,  its  neck  drawn  and  contracted 
in  the  paroxysms  of  rabies ;  its  deadly  eyes,  staring,  un 
earthly  yellow  in  the  lantern  light.  Within  two  yards  of 
Clay,  who  stood  helpless  with  fear  and  uncertainty,  it 
crouched  to  spring,  growling  and  snapping  at  its  own 
sides,  and  Helen  screamed  again  as  she  saw  Travis's 
quick,  lithe  figure  spring  forward  and,  grasping  the 
dog  by  the  throat  from  behind,  fling  himself  with  crush 
ing  force  on  the  brute,  choking  it  as  he  fell. 

Total  darkness  —  for  in  his  rush  Travis  threw  aside 
his  lantern  —  and  it  seemed  an  age  to  Helen  as  she  heard 
the  terrible  fight  for  life  going  on  at  her  feet,  the 
struggles  and  howls  of  the  dog,  the  snapping  of  the 
huge  teeth,  the  stinging  sand  thrown  up  into  her  face. 
Then  after  a  while  all  was  still,  and  then  very  quietly 
from  Travis: 

"A  match,  Clay  —  light  the  lantern!  I  have 
choked  him  to  death." 

Under  the  light  he  arose,  his  clothes  torn  with  tooth 
and  fang  of  the  gaunt  dog,  which  lay  silent.  He  stood 


570        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

up  hot  and  flushed,  and  then  turned  pallid,  and  for  ?. 
moment  staggered  as  he  saw  the  blood  trickling  from  his 
left  arm. 

Helen  stood  by  him  terror-eyed,  trembling,  crushed,: — 
with  a  terrible  sickening  fear. 

"  He  was  mad,"  said  Travis  gently,  "  and  I  fear  he 
has  bitten  me,  though  I  managed  to  jump  on  him  before 
he  bit  you  two." 

He  took  off  his  coat  —  blood  was  on  his  shirt  sleeve 
and  had  run  down  his  arm.  Helen,  pale  and  with  a 
great  sob  in  her  throat,  rolled  up  the  sleeve,  Travis  sub 
mitting,  with  a  strange  pallor  in  his  face  and  the  new 
light  in  his  eyes. 

His  bare  arm  came  up  strong  and  white.  Above  the 
elbow,  near  the  shoulder,  the  blood  still  flowed  where  the 
fangs  had  sunk. 

"  There  is  only  one  chance  to  save  me,"  he  said 
quietly,  "  and  that,  a  slim  one.  It  bleeds  —  if  I  could 
only  get  my  lips  to  it  — 

He  tried  to  expostulate,  to  push  her  off,  as  he  felt 
her  lips  against  his  naked  arm.  But  she  clung  there 
sucking  out  the  virus.  He  felt  her  tears  fall  on  his  arm. 
He  heard  her  murmur: 

"  My  dying  lion  —  my  dying  lion  !  " 

He  bent  and  whispered :  "  You  are  risking  your  own 
life  for  me,  Helen  !  Life  for  life  —  death  for  death !  " 

It  was  too  much  even  for  his  great  strength,  and 
when  he  recovered  himself  he  was  sitting  on  the  sand  of 
the  little  cave.  How  long  she  had  clung  to  his  arm  he 
did  not  know,  but  it  had  ceased  to  pain  him  and  her  own 
handkerchief  was  tied  around  it. 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  DEATH          571 

He  staggered  out,  a  terrible  pallor  on  his  face,  as  he 
said :  "  Not  this  way  —  not  to  go  this  way.  Oh,  God, 
your  blow  —  I  care  not  for  death,  but,  oh,  not  this 
death?" 

"  Clay,"  he  said  after  a  while  — "  Take  her  —  take 
her  to  your  mother  and  sister  to-night.  I  must  bid 
you  both  good-night,  ay,  and  good-bye.  See,  you  walk 
only  across  the  field  there  —  that  is  Westmoreland." 

He  turned,  but  he  felt  some  one  clinging  to  his  hand, 

in  the  dark.     He  looked  down  at  her,  at  the  white,  drawn 

face,  beautiful  with  a  terrible  pain :     "  Take  me  —  take 

me,"  she  begged  — "  with  you  —  to  the  end  of  the  world 

—  oh,  I  love  you  and  I  care  not  who  knows." 

"  Child  -  -  child  " —  he     whispered     sadly  — "  You 
know  not  what  you  say.     I  am  dying.      I  shall  be  mad 
-  unless  —  unless  what  you  have  done  — " 

"  Take  me,"  she  pleaded  — "  my  lion.     I  am  yours." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  and  then  walked  quickly 
away. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  ANGEL   WITH   THE    FLAMING   SWORD 

IT  WAS  nearly  time  for  the  mill  to  close  when 
Mammy  Maria,  her  big  honest  face  beaming  with 
satisfaction  at  the  surprise  she  had  in  store  for 
Helen,  began  to  wind  her  red  silk  bandana  around  her 
head.  She  had  several  bandanas,  but  when  Lily  saw  her 
put  on  the  red  silk  one,  the  little  girl  knew  she  was 
going  out  — "  dressin'  fur  prom'nade  " —  as  the  old 
lady  termed  it. 

"  You  are  going  after  Helen,"  said  the  little  girl, 
clapping  her  hands. 

She  sat  on  her  father's  lap :  "  And  we  want  you  to 
hurry  up,  Mammy  Maria,"  he  said,  "  I  want  all  my 
family  here.  I  am  going  to  work  to-morrow.  I'll  re 
deem  Millwood  before  my  two  years  expire  or  I  am  not 
a  Conway  again." 

Mammy  Maria  was  agitated  enough.  She  had  been 
so  busy  that  she  had  failed  to  notice  how  late  it  was. 
In  her  efforts  to  surprise  Helen  she  had  forgotten  time, 
and  now  she  feared  the  mill  might  close  and  Helen,  not 
knowing  they  had  moved,  would  go  back  to  Millwood. 
This  meant  a  two  mile  tramp  and  delay.  She  had 
plenty  of  time,  she  knew,  before  the  mill  closed ;  but  the 
more  she  thought  of  the  morning's  scene  at  the  mill  and 
of  Jud  Carpenter,  the  greater  her  misgivings.  For 

572 


THE  ANGEL  WITH  FLAMING  SWORD  573 

Mammy  Maria  was  instinctive  —  a  trait  her  people 
have.  It  is  always  Nature's  substitute  when  much  in 
tellect  is  wanting. 

All  afternoon  she  had  chuckled  to  herself.  All  after 
noon,  the  three  of  them, —  for  even  Major  Conway 
joined  in,  and  helped  work  and  arrange  things  —  talked 
it  over  as  they  planned.  His  face  was  clear  now,  and 
calm,  as  in  the  old  days.  Even  the  old  servant  could 
see  he  had  determined  to  win  in  the  fight. 

"  Marse  Ned's  hisse'f  ag'in,"  she  would  say  to  him 
encouragingly  — "  Marse  Ned's  hisse'f  —  an'  Zion's  by 
his  side,  yea,  Lord,  the  Ark  of  the  Tabbernackle !  " 

For  the  last  time  she  surveyed  the  little  rooms  of  the 
cottage.  How  clean  and  fresh  it  all  was,  and  how  the 
old  mahogany  of  Millwood  set  them  off!  And  now  all 
was  ready. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  she  reached  the  mill.  It 
had  not  yet  closed  down,  and  lights  began  to  blaze  first 
from  one  window,  then  another.  She  could  hear  the 
steam  and  the  coughing  of  the  exhaust  pipe. 

This  was  all  the  old  woman  had  hoped  —  to  be  in  time 
for  Helen  when  the  mill  closed. 

But  one  thing  was  in  her  way,  or  she  had  taken  her 
as  she  did  Lily :  She  did  not  know  where  Helen's  room 
was  in  the  mill.  There  was  no  fear  in  the  old  nurse's 
heart.  She  had  taken  Lily,  she  would  take  Helen.  She 
would  show  the  whole  tribe  of  them  that  she  would! 
But  in  which  room  was  the  elder  sister? 

So  she  walked  again  into  the  main  office,  fearless,  and 
with  her  head  up.  For  was  she  not  Zion,  the  Lord's 


574        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

chosen,  the  sanctified  one,  and  the  powers  of  hell  were 
naught? 

No  one  was  in  the  office  but  Jud  Carpenter,  and  to 
her  surprise  he  treated  her  with  the  utmost  courtesy. 
Indeed,  his  courtesy  was  so  intense  that  any  one  but 
Zion,  who,  being  black,  knew  little  of  irony  and  less 
of  sarcasm,  might  have  seen  that  Jud's  courtesy  was 
strongly  savored  of  the  two. 

"  Be  seated,  Madam,"  he  said  with  a  profound  bow. 
"  Be  seated,  Upholder  of  Heaven,  Chief-cook-an'-bottle- 
washer  in  the  Kingdom  to  come!  An'  what  may  have 
sent  the  angel  of  the  Lord  to  honor  us  with  another 
visit?" 

The  old  woman's  fighting  feathers  arose  instantly: — 

"  The  same  that  sent  'em  to  Sodom  an'  Gomarrer, 
suh,"  she  replied. 

"  Ah,"  said  Jud  apologetically,  "  an'  I  hope  we  won't 
smell  any  brimstone  to-night." 

"  If  you  don't  smell  it  to-night,  you'll  smell  it  befo' 
long.  And  now  look  aheah,  Mister  White  Man,  no  use 
for  you  an'  me  to  set  here  a-jawin'  an'  'spu'tin'.  I've 
come  after  my  other  gyrl  an'  you  know  I'm  gwine 
have  her !  " 

"  Oh,  she'll  be  out  'torectly,  Mrs.  Zion !  Jes'  keep 
yo*  robes  on  an'  hoi'  yo'  throne  down  a  little  while. 
She'll  be  out  'torectly." 

There  was  a  motive  in  this  lie,  as  there  was  in  all 
others  Jud  Carpenter  told. 

It  was  soon  apparent.  For  scarcely  had  the  old 
woman  seated  herself  with  a  significant  toss  of  her  head 
when  the  mill  began  to  cease  to  hum  and  roar. 


THE  ANGEL  WITH  FLAMING  SWORD  575 

She  sat  watching  the  door  keenly  as  they  came  out. 
What    creatures    they    were,     lint-and-dust-covered    to 
their  very   eyes.     The  yellow,   hard,   emotionless    faces 
of  the  men,  the  haggard,  weary  ones  of  the  girls  and 
women   and  little  children!     Never   had   she   seen   such 
white  people  before,  such  hollow  eyes,  with  dark,  blood 
less  rings  beneath  them,  sunken  cheeks,  tanned  to  the 
color  of  oiled  hickory,  much  used.     Dazed,  listless,  they 
stumbled  out  past  her  with  relaxed  under  jaws  and  faces 
gloomy,  expressionless  —  so  long  bent  over  looms,  they 
had  taken  on  the  very  looks  of  them  —  the  shapes  of 
them,  moving,  walking,  working,  mechanically.    Women, 
smileless,  and  so  tired  and  numbed  that  they  had  for 
gotten   the    strongest    instinct    of   humanity  —  the   ro 
mance  of  sex ;  for  many  of  them  wore  the  dirty,  chopped- 
off  jackets  of  men,  their  slouched  black  hats,  their  coarse 
shoes,  and  talked  even  in  the  vulgar,  hard  irony  of  the 
male  in  despair. 

They  all  passed  out  — one  by  one  —  for  in  them 
was  not  even  the  instinct  of  the  companionship  of 
misery. 

Every  moment  the  old  nurse  expected  Helen  to  walk 
out,  to  walk  out  in  her  queenly  way,  with  her  beautiful 
face  and  manners,  so  different  from  those  around  her. 

Jud  Carpenter  sat  at  his  desk  quietly  cutting  plug 
tobacco  to  fill  his  pipe-bowl,  and  watching  the  old  woman 
slyly. 

"Oh,  she'll  be 'long  'torectly  —  you  see  the  drawer- 
m  bein'  in  the  far  room  comes  out  last." 

The  last  one  passed  out.  The  mill  became  silent,  and 
yet  Helen  did  not  appear. 


576        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

The  old  nurse  arose  impatiently :  "  I  reck'n  I'll  go 
find  her,"  she  said  to  Carpenter. 

"  I'd  better  sho'  you  the  way,  old  'oman,"  he  said, 
lazily  shuffling  off  the  stool  he  was  sitting  on  pretend 
ing  to  be  reading  a  paper  — "  you'll  never  fin'  the  room 
by  yo'self." 

He  led  her  along  through  the  main  room,  hot,  lint- 
filled  and  evil-smelling.  It  was  quite  dark.  Then  to 
the  rear,  where  the  mill  jutted  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  he 
stopped  in  front  of  a  door  and  said :  ;'  This  is  her 
room;  she's  in  there,  I  reckin  —  she's  gen'ly  late." 

With  quickening  heart  the  old  woman  entered  and, 
almost  immediately,  she  heard  the  door  behind  her  shut 
and  the  key  turn  in  the  bolt.  The  room  was  empty 
and  she  sprang  back  to  the  door,  only  to  find  it  securely 
locked,  and  to  hear  Jud  Carpenter's  jeers  from  with 
out.  She  ran  to  the  two  small  windows.  They  were 
high  and  looked  out  over  a  ravine. 

She  did  not  utter  a  word.  Reared  as  she  had  been 
among  the  Conways,  she  was  too  well  bred  to  act  the 
coward,  and  beg  and  plead  in  undignified  tones  for 
relief.  At  first  she  thought  it  was  only  a  cruel  joke 
of  the,  Whipper-in,  but  when  he  spoke,  she  saw  it  was 
not. 

"  Got  you  where  I  want  you,  Mother  of  Zion,"  he 
said  through  the  key  hole.  "  I  guess  you  are  safe  there 
till  mornin'  unless  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  opens  the  do' 
as  they  say  he  has  a  way  of  doin'  for  Saints  —  ha  — 
ha  — ha!" 

No  word  from  within. 

"  Wanter  kno'  what  I  shet  you  up  for,  Mother  of  all 


THE  ANGEL  WITH  FLAMING  SWORD    577 

Holiness  ?  Well,  listen  :  It's  to  keep  you  there  till  to 
morrow —  that's  good  reason,  ain't  it?  You'll  find  a 
lot  of  cotton  in  the  fur  corner  —  a  mighty  good  thing 
for  a  bed.  Can't  you  talk?  How  do  you  like  it?  I 
guess  you  ain't  so  independent  now." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  old  woman  sat  numbly  in 
Helen's  chair.  She  saw  a  bunch  of  violets  in  her  frame, 
and  the  odor  brought  back  memories  of  her  old  home. 
A  great  fear  began  to  creep  over  her  —  not  for  her 
self,  but  for  Helen,  and  she  fell  on  her  knees  by  the 
frame  and  prayed  silently. 

Jud's  voice  came  again  :  "  Want  to  kno'  now  why 
you'll  stay  there  till  mornin'  ?  Well,  I'll  tell  you— it'll 
make  you  pass  a  com'f 'table  night  —  you'll  never  see 
Miss  Helen  ag'in  — " 

The  old  nurse  sprang  to  her  feet.  She  lost  control 
of  herself,  for  all  day  she  had  felt  this  queer  presenti 
ment,  and  now  was  it  really  true  ?  She  blamed  herself 
for  not  taking  Helen  that  morning. 

She  threw  herself  against  the  door.  It  was  strong 
and  secure. 

Jud  met  it  with  a  jeering  laugh . 

"Oh,  you're  safe  an'  you'll  never  see  her  agin.  I 
don't  mind  tellin'  you  she  has  run  off  with  Kichard 
Travis  — they'll  go  North  to-night.  You'll  find  other 
folks  can  walk  off  with  yo'  gals  —  'specially  the  han'sum 
ones — besides  yo'se'f." 

The  old  nurse  was  stricken  with  weakness.  Her  limbs 
shook  so  she  sat  down  in  a  heap  at  the  door  and  said 
pleadingly  :  —  "  Are  you  lyin'  to  me,  white  man  ?  Will 
—  will  he  marry  her  or — " 

37 


578        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  him  marryin'  anybody  ? " 
came  back  with  a  laugh.  "  No,  he's  only  took  a  de 
serted  young  'oman  in  out  of  the  cold  —  he'll  take  care 
of  her,  but  he  ain't  the  marryin'  kind,  is  he?  " 

The  reputation  of  Richard  Travis  was  as  well  known 
to  Mammy  Maria  as  it  was  to  anyone.  She  did  not 
know  whether  to  believe  Jud  or  not,  but  one  thing  she 
knew  —  something  —  something  dreadful  was  happen 
ing  to  Helen.  The  old  nurse  called  to  mind  instantly 
things  that  had  happened  before  she  herself  had  left 
Millwood  —  things  Helen  had  said  —  her  grief,  her  de 
spair,  her  horror  of  the  mill,  her  belief  that  she  was 
already  disgraced.  It  all  came  to  the  old  nurse  now  so 
plainly.  Tempted  as  she  was,  young  as  she  was,  de 
serted  and  forsaken  as  she  thought  she  was,  might  not 
indeed  the  temptation  be  too  much  for  her? 

She  groaned  as  she  heard  Jud  laugh  and  walk  off. 

"  O  my  baby,  my  beautiful  baby ! "  she  wept,  falling 
on  her  knees  again. 

The  mill  grew  strangely  silent  and  dark.  On  a  pile 
of  loose  cotten  she  fell,  praying  after  the  manner  of  her 
race. 

An  hour  passed.  The  darkness,  the  loneliness,  the 
horror  of  it  all  crept  into  her  superstitious  soul,  and  she 
became  frantic  with  religious  fervor  and  despair. 

Pacing  the  room,  she  sang  and  prayed  in  a  frenzy  of 
emotional  tumult.  But  she  heard  only  the  echo  of  her 
own  voice,  and  only  the  wailings  of  her  own  songs 
came  back.  Negro  that  she  was,  she  was  intelligent 
enough  to  know  that  Jud  Carpenter  spoke  the  truth 
—  that  not  for  his  life  would  he  have  dared  to  say  this 


THE  ANGEL  WITH  FLAMING  SWORD    579 

if  it  had  not  had  some  truth  in  it.  What  ? —  she  did  not 
know  —  she  only  knew  that  harm  was  coming  to  Helen. 

She  called  aloud  for  help  —  for  Edward  Con  way. 
But  the  mill  was  closed  tight  —  the  windows  nailed. 

Another  hour  passed.  It  began  to  tell  on  the  old 
creature's  mind.  Negroes  are  simple,  religious,  super 
stitious  folks,  easily  unbalanced  by  grief  or  wrong. 

She  began  to  see  visions  in  this  frenzy  of  religious 
excitement,  as  so  many  of  her  race  do  under  the  nervous 
strain  of  religious  feeling.  She  fell  into  a  trance. 

It  was  most  real  to  her.  Who  that  has  ever  heard 
a  negro  give  in  his  religious  experience  but  recognizes 
it?  She  was  carried  on  the  wings  of  the  morning  down 
to  the  gates  of  hell.  The  Devil  himself  met  her,  tempt 
ing  her  always,  conducting  her  through  the  region  of 
darkness  and  showing  her  the  lakes  of  fire  and  threat 
ening  her  with  all  his  punishment  if  she  did  not  cease 
to  believe.  She  overcame  him  only  by  constant  prayer. 
She  fled  from  him,  he  followed  her,  but  could  not  ap 
proach  her  while  she  prayed.  .  .  .  She  was  rescued 
by  an  angel  —  an  angel  from  heaven  ...  an 
angel  with  a  flaming  sword.  Through  all  the  glories  of 
heaven  this  angel  conducted  her,  praised  her,  and  bid 
ding  her  farewell  at  the  gate,  told  her  to  go  back  to 
earth  and  take  this :  It  tea*  a  torch  of  fire! 

"  Burn!  burn!  "  said  the  angel — "  for  I  shall  make 
tJie  governors  of  Judah  like  an  hearth  of  fire  among  the 
wood,  and  like  a  torch  of  -fire  on  a  sheaf.  And  they 
shall  devour  all  the  people  around  about,  on  the  right 
hand  and  the  left:  and  Jerusalem  shall  be  inhabited 
again  m  her  own  place,  even  in  Jerusalem." 


580        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

She  came  out  of  the  trance  in  a  glory  of  religious 
fervor :  "  Jerusalem  shall  be  inhabited  ag'in !  —  the 
Angel  has  told  me  —  told  me  —  Burn  —  burn,"  she 
cried.  "  Oh  Lord  —  you  have  spoken  and  Zion  has 
ears  to  hear  —  Amen." 

Quickly  she  gathered  up  the  loose  cotton  and  placed 
it  at  the  door,  piling  it  up  to  the  very  bolt.  She  struck 
a  match,  swaying  and  rocking  and  chanting :  '  Yea, 
Lord,  thy  servant  hath  heard  —  thy  servant  hath 
heard!" 

The  flames  leaped  up  quickly  enveloping  the  door. 
The  room  began  to  fill  with  smoke,  but  she  retreated  to 
a  far  corner  and  fell  on  her  knees  in  prayer.  The 
panels  of  the  door  caught  first  and  the  flames  spread 
ing  upward  soon  heated  the  lock  around  which  the 
wood  blazed  and  crackled.  It  burned  through.  She 
sprang  up,  rushed  through  the  blinding  smoke,  struck 
the  door  as  it  blazed,  in  a  broken  mass,  and  rushed  out. 
Down  the  long  main  room  she  ran  to  a  low  window, 
burst  it,  and  stepped  out  on  the  ground: 

"  Jerusalem  shall  be  inhabited  again,"  she  shouted  as 
she  ran  breathless  toward  home. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    GREAT    FIRE 

EDWARD  CONWAY  sat  on  the  little  porch  till 
the  stars  came  out,  wondering  why  the  old  nurse 
did  not  return.  Sober  as  he  was  and  knew  he 
would  ever  be,  it  seemed  that  a  keen  sensitiveness  came 
with  it,  and  a  feeling  of  impending  calamity. 

"  Oh,  it's  the  cursed  whiskey,"  he  said  to  himself  — 
"  it  always  leaves  you  keyed  up  like  a  fiddle  or  a  woman. 
I'll  get  over  it  after  a  while  or  I'll  die  trying,"  and  he 
closed  his  teeth  upon  each  other  with  a  nervous  twist 
that  belied  his  efforts  at  calmness. 

But  even  Lily  grew  alarmed,  and  to  quiet  her  he 
took  her  into  the  house  and  they  ate  their  supper  in 
silence. 

Again  he  came  out  on  the  porch  and  sat  with  the 
little  girl  in  his  lap.  But  Lily  gave  him  no  rest,  for 
she  kept  saying,  as  the  hours  passed :  "  Where  is  she, 
father  —  oh,  do  go  and  see !  " 

"  She  has  gone  to  Millwood  through  mistake,"  he 
kept  telling  her,  "  and  Mammy  Maria  has  doubtless 
gone  after  her.  Mammy  will  bring  her  back.  We  will 
wait  awhile  longer  —  if  I  had  some  one  to  leave  you 
with,"  he  said  gently,  "  I'd  go  myself.  But  she  will  be 
home  directly." 

And  Lily  went  to  sleep  in  his  lap,  waiting. 

581 


582        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

The  moon  came  up,  and  Conway  wrapped  Lily  in  a 
shawl,  but  still  held  her  in  his  arms.  And  as  he  sat 
holding  her  and  waiting  with  a  fast-beating  heart  for 
the  old  nurse,  all  his  wasted  life  passed  before  him. 

He  saw  himself  as  he  had  not  for  years  —  his  life  a 
failure,  his  fortune  gone.  He  wondered  how  he  had 
escaped  as  he  had,  and  as  he  thought  of  the  old  Bishop's 
words,  he  wondered  why  God  had  been  as  good  to  him 
as  He  had,  and  again  he  uttered  a  silent  prayer  of 
thankfulness  and  for  strength.  And  with  it  the  strength 
came,  and  he  knew  he  could  never  more  be  the  drunkard 
he  had  been.  There  was  something  in  him  stronger 
than  himself. 

He  was  a  strong  man  spiritually  —  it  had  been  his 
inheritance,  and  the  very  thought  of  anything  happen 
ing  to  Helen  blanched  his  cheek.  In  spite  of  the  faults^ 
of  his  past,  no  man  loved  his  children  more  than  he, 
when  he  was  himself.  Like  all  keen,  sensitive  natures, 
his  was  filled  to  overflowing  with  paternal  love. 

"  My  God,"  he  thought,  "  suppose  —  suppose  she  has 
gone  back  to  Millwood,  found  none  of  us  there,  thinks 
she  had  been  deserted,  and  —  and  — " 

The  thought  was  unbearable.  He  slipped  in  with 
the  sleeping  Lily  in  his  arms  and  began  to  put  her  in 
bed  without  awakening  her,  determined  to  mount  his 
horse  and  go  for  Helen  himself. 

But  just  then  the  old  nurse,  frantic,  breathless  and 
in  a  delirium  of  religious  excitement,  came  in  and  fell 
fainting  on  the  porch. 

He  revived  her  with  cold  water,  and  when  she  could 


THE  GREAT  FIRE  583 

talk  she  could  only  pronounce  Helen's  name,  and  say 
they  had  run  off  with  her. 

"Who?" — shouted  Conway,  his  heart  stopping  in 
the  staggering  shock  of  it. 

The  old  woman  tried  to  tell  Jud  Carpenter's  tale, 
and  Conway  heard  enough.  He  did  not  wait  to  hear  it 
all  —  he  did  not  know  the  mill  was  now  slowly  burning. 

"  Take  care  of  Lily  " —  he  said,  as  he  went  into  his 
room  and  came  out  with  his  pistol  buckled  around  his 
waist. 

Then  he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  swiftly  to  Mill 
wood. 

He  was  astonished  to  find  a  fire  in  the  hearth,  a  lamp 
burning,  and  one  of  Helen's  gloves  lying  on  the  table. 

By  it  was  another  pair.  He  picked  them  up  and 
looked  closely.  Within,  in  red  ink,  were  the  initials: 
R.  T. 

He  bit  his  lips  till  the  blood  came.  He  bowed  his 
head  in  his  hands. 

Sometimes  there  comes  to  us  that  peculiar  mental 
condition  in  which  we  are  vaguely  conscious  that  once 
before  we  have  been  in  the  same  place,  amid  the  same 
conditions  and  surroundings  which  now  confront  us. 
We  seem  to  be  living  again  a  brief  moment  of  our  past 
life,  where  Time  himself  has  turned  back  everything. 
It  came  that  instant  to  Edward  Conway. 

"It  was  here  —  and  what  was  it?  Oh,  yes: — 
'Some  men  repent  to  God's  smile,  some  to  His  frown, 
and  some  to  His  fist?  '  " —  He  groaned: — "  This  is  His 
fist.  Never  —  never  before  in  all  the  history  of  the  Con- 
way  family  has  one  of  its  women  — " 


584        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

He  sat  down  on  the  old  sofa  and  buried,  again,  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

Edward  Conway  was  sober,  but  he  still  had  the  in 
stincts  of  the  drunkard  —  it  never  occurred  to  him  that 
he  had  done  anything  to  cause  it.  Drunkenness  was 
nothing  —  a  weakness  —  a  fault  which  was  now  behind 
him.  But  this  —  this  —  the  first  of  all  the  Conway 
women  —  and  his  daughter  —  his  child  —  the  beautiful 
one.  He  sat  still,  and  then  he  grew  very  calm.  It  was 
the  calmness  of  the  old  Conway  spirit  returning. 
"  Richard  Travis,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  knows  as  well 
what  this  act  of  his  means  in  the  South, —  in  the  un 
written  law  of  our  land  —  as  I  do.  He  has  taken  his 
chance  of  life  or  death.  I'll  see  that  it  is  death.  This 
is  the  last  of  me  and  my  house.  But  in  the  fall  I'll 
see  that  this  Philistine  of  Philistines  dies  under  its 
ruins." 

He  arose  and  started  out.  He  saw  the  lap  robe  in 
the  hall,  and  this  put  him  to  investigating.  The  mares 
and  buggy  he  found  under  the  shed.  It  was  all  a  mys 
tery  to  him,  but  of  one  thing  he  was  sure:  "  He  will 
soon  come  back  for  them.  I  can  wait." 

Choosing  a  spot  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  tree,  he  sat 
down  with  his  pistol  across  his  knees.  The  moon  had 
arisen  and  cast  ghostly  shadows  over  everything.  It 
was  a  time  for  repentance,  for  thoughts  of  the  past  with 
him,  and  as  he  sat  there,  that  terrible  hour,  with  mur 
der  in  his  heart,  bitterness  and  repentance  were  his. 

He  was  a  changed  man.  Never  again  could  he  be 
the  old  self.  "  But  the  blow  —  the  blow,"  he  kept  say 
ing,  "  I  thought  it  would  fall  on  me  —  not  on  her  — 


THE  GREAT  FIRE  585 

my  beautiful  one  —  not  on  a  Con  way  woman's  chastity 
• —  not  my  wife's  daughter  — " 

He  heard  steps  coming  down  the  path.  His  heart 
ceased  a  moment,  it  seemed  to  him,  and  then  beat  wildly. 
He  drew  a  long  breath  to  relieve  it  —  to  calm  it  with 
cool  oxygen,  and  then  he  cocked  the  five  chambered 
pistol  and  waited  as  full  of  the  joy  of  killing  as  if  the 
man  who  was  now  walking  down  the  path  was  a  wolf 
or  a  mad  dog  — down  the  path  and  right  into  the  muz 
zle  of  the  pistol,  backed  by  the  arm  which  could  kill. 

He  saw  Richard  Travis  coming,  slowly,  painfully, 
his  left  arm  tied  up,  and  his  step,  once  so  quick  and 
active,  so  full  of  strength  and  life,  now  was  as  if  the 
blight  of  old  age  had  come  upon  it. 

In  spite  of  his  bitter  determination  Conway  noticed 
the  great  change,  and  instinct,  which  acts  even  through 
anger  and  hatred  and  revenge  and  the  maddening  fury 
of  murder, —  instinct,  the  ever  present  —  whispered  its 
warning  to  his  innermost  ear. 

Still,  he  could  not  resist.  Rising,  he  threw  his  pistol 
up  within  a  few  yards  of  Richard  Travis's  breast,  his 
hand  upon  the  trigger.  But  he  could  not  fire,  although 
Travis  stood  quietly  under  its  muzzle  and  looked  with 
out  surprise  into  his  face. 

Conway  glanced  along  the  barrel  of  his  weapon  and 
into  the  face  of  Richard  Travis.  And  then  he  brought 
his  pistol  down  with  a  quick  movement. 

The  face  before  him  was  begging  him  to  shoot! 

"Why  don't  you  shoot?  "  said  Travis  at  last,  break 
ing  the  silence  and  in  a  tone  of  disappointment. 


586        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  Because  you  are  not  guilty,"  said  Conway  — "  not 
with  that  look  in  your  face." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  saw  my  face,  then,"  he  smiled 
sadly  — "  for  it  had  been  such  a  happy  solution  for  it 
all  —  if  you  had  only  fired." 

"Where  is  my  child?" 

"  Do  you  think  you  have  any  right  to  ask  — having 
treated  her  as  you  have  ?  " 

Conway  trembled,  at  first  with  rage,  then  in  shame : 

"No,"— he  said  finally.  "No,  you  are  right  —  I 
haven't." 

"  That  is  the  only  reply  you  could  have  made  me 
that  would  make  it  obligatory  on  my  part  to  answer 
your  question.  In  that  reply  I  see  there  is  hope  for 
you.  So  I  will  tell  you  she  is  safe,  unharmed,  unhurt." 

"  I  felt  it,"  said  Conway,  quietly,  "  for  I  knew  it, 
Richard  Travis,  as  soon  as  I  saw  your  face.  But  tell 
me  all." 

"  There  is  little  to  tell.  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
to  run  off  with  her,  marry  her,  perhaps,  since  she  had 
neither  home  nor  a  father,  and  was  a  beautiful  young 
thing  which  any  man  might  be  proud  of.  But  things 
have  come  up  —  no,  not  come  up,  fallen,  fallen  and 
crushed.  It  has  been  a  crisis  all  around  —  so  I  sent  for 
Clay  —  a  fine  young  fellow  and  he  loves  her  —  I  had 
him  meet  me  heje  and  —  well,  he  has  taken  her  to 
Westmoreland  to-night.  You  know  she  is  safe  there. 
She  will  come  to  you  to-morrow  as  pure  as  she  left, 
though  God  knows  you  do  not  deserve  it." 

Something  sprang  into  Edward  Conway's  throat  — 
something  kin  to  a  joyous  shout.  He  could  not  speak. 


THE  GREAT  FIRE  587 

He  could  only  look  at  the  strange,  calm,  sad  man  be 
fore  him  in  a  gratitude  that  uplifted  him.  He  stared 
with  eyes  that  were  blinded  with  tears. 

"  Dick  —  Dick,"  he  said,  "  we  have  been  estranged, 
since  the  war.  I  misjudged  you.  I  see  I  never  knew 
you.  I  came  to  kill,  but  here — "  He  thrust  the  grip 
of  his  pistol  toward  Travis  — "  here,  Dick,  kill  me  — 
shoot  me  —  I  am  not  fit  to  live  —  but,  O  God,  how 
clearly  I  see  now ;  and,  Dick  —  Dick  —  you  shall  see  — 
the  world  shall  see  that  from  now  on,  with  God's  help, 
as  Lily  makes  me  say  —  Dick,  I'll  be  a  Conway  again." 

The  other  man  pressed  his  hand :  "  Ned,  I  believe 
it  —  I  believe  it.  Go  back  to  your  little  home  to-night. 
Your  daughter  is  safe.  To-morrow  you  may  begin 
all  over  again.  To-morrow  — " 

"  And  you,  Dick  —  I  have  heard  —  I  can  guess,  but 
why  may  not  you,  to-morrow  — " 

'  There  will  be  no  to-morrow  for  me,"  he  said  sadly. 
6  Things  stop  suddenly  before  me  to-night  as  before  an 
abyss  — " 

He  turned  quickly  and  looked  toward  the  low  lying 
range  of  mountains.  A  great  red  flush  as  of  a  rising 
sun  glowed  even  beyond  the  rim  of  them,  and  then  out 
of  it  shot  tinges  of  flame. 

Conway  saw  it  at  the  same  instant: 

"  It's  the  mill  —  the  mill's  afire,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A    CONWAY   AGAIN 

IT   WAS   a   great   fire  the   mill   made,   lighting  the 
valley  for  miles.     All  Cottontown  was  there  to  see 
it  burn,  hushed,  with  set  faces,  some  of  anger,  some 
of  fear  —  but  all  in  stricken  numbness,  knowing  that 
their  living  was  gone. 

It  was  not  long  before  Jud  Carpenter  was  among 
them,  stirring  them  with  the  story  of  how  the  old  negro 
woman  had  burned  it  —  for  he  knew  it  was  she.  In 
deed,  he  was  soon  fully  substantiated  by  others  who 
heard  her  when  she  had  run  home  heaping  her  male 
dictions  on  the  mill. 

Soon  among  them  began  the  whisper  of  lynching. 
As  it  grew  they  became  bolder  and  began  to  shout  it: 
Lynch  her!  . 

Jud  Carpenter,  half  drunk  and  wholly  reckless,  stood 
on  a  stump,  and  after  telling  his  day's  experience  with 
Mammy  Maria,  her  defiance  of  the  mill's  laws,  her  arro 
gance,  her  burning  of  the  mill,  he  shouted  that  he 
himself  would  lead  them. 

"  Lynch  her !  "  they  shouted.  "  Lead  us,  Jud  Car 
penter!  We  will  lynch  her." 

Some  wanted  to  wait  until  daylight,  but  "Lynch  her 
• —  lynch  her  now,"  was  the  shout. 

The  crowd  grew  denser  every  moment. 

588 


A  CONWAY  AGAIN  589 

The  people  of  Cottontown,  hot  and  revengeful,  now 
that  their  living  was  burned;  hill  dwellers  who  sympa 
thized  with  them,  and  coming  in,  were  eager  for  any 
excitement;  the  unlawful  element  which  infests  every 
town  —  all  were  there,  the  idle,  the  ignorant,  the 
vicious. 

And  a  little  viciousness  goes  a  long  way. 

There  had  been  so  many  lynchings  in  the  South  that 
it  had  ceased  to  be  a  crime  —  for  crime,  the  weed,  culti 
vated  —  grows  into  a  flower  to  those  who  do  the  tending. 

Many  of  the  lynchings,  it  is  true,  were  honest  — 
the  frenzy  of  outraged  humanity  to  avenge  a  terrible 
crime  which  the  law,  in  it's  delay,  often  had  let  go 
unpunished.  The  laxity  of  the  law,  the  unscrupulous- 
ness  of  its  lawyers,  their  shrewdness  in  clearing  crim 
inals  if  the  fee  was  forthcoming,  the  hundreds  of  techni 
calities  thrown  around  criminals,  the  narrowness  of  su 
preme  courts  in  reversing  on  these  technicalities.  All 
these  had  thrown  the  law  back  to  its  source  —  the  peo 
ple.  And  they  had  taken  it  in  their  own  hands.  In 
violent  hands,  but  deadly  sure  and  retributory. 

If  there  was  ever  an  excuse  for  lynching,  the  South 
was  entitled  to  it.  For  the  crime  was  the  result  of 
the  sudden  emancipation  of  ignorant  slaves,  who,  backed 
by  the  bayonets  of  their  liberators,  and  attributing  a 
far  greater  importance  to  their  elevation  than  was  war 
ranted,  perpetuated  an  unnameable  crime  as  part  of  their 
system  of  revenge  for  years  of  slavery.  And  the  South 
arose  to  the  terribleness  of  the  crime  and  met  it  with 
the  rifle,  the  torch  and  the  rope. 

Why   should   it  be   wondered   at?     Why   should   the 


590        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

South  be  singled  out  for  blame?  Is  it  not  a  fact  that 
for  years  in  every  newly  settled  western  state  lynch- 
law  has  been  the  unchallenged,  unanimous  verdict  for 
a  horse  thief?  And  is  not  the  honor  of  a  white  woman 
more  than  the  hide  of  a  broncho? 

But  from  an  honest,  well  intentioned  frenzy  of  justice 
outraged  to  any  pretext  is  an  easy  step.  From  the 
quick  lynching  of  the  rapist  and  murderer  —  to  be  sure 
that  the  lawyers  and  courts  did  not  acquit  them  —  was 
one  step.  To  hang  a  half  crazy  old  woman  for  burn 
ing  a  mill  was  another,  and  the  natural  consequence  of 
the  first. 

And  so  these  people  flocked  to  the  burning  —  they 
who  had  helped  lynch  before  —  the  negro-haters,  who 
had  never  owned  a  negro  and  had  no  sympathy  —  no 
sentiment  for  them.  It  is  they  who  lynch  in  the  South, 
who  lynch  and  defy  the  law. 

The  great  mill  was  in  ruins  —  it's  tall  black  smoke 
stacks  alone  stood  amid  its  smoking,  twisted  mass  of 
steel  and  ashes  —  a  rough,  blackened,  but  fitting  mon 
ument  of  its  own  infamy. 

They  gathered  around  it  —  the  disorderly,  the  vicious, 
the  lynchers  of  the  Tennessee  Valley. 

Fitful  flashes  of  flame  now  and  then  burst  out  amid 
the  ruins,  silhouetting  the  shadows  of  the  lynchers  into 
fierce  giant  forms  with  frenzied  faces  from  which  came 
first  murmurs  and  finally  shouts  of: 

"  Lynch  Tier!     Lynch  her!  " 

Above,  in  the  still  air  of  the  night,  yet  hung  the  pall 
of  the  black  smoke-cloud,  from  whose  heart  had  come 


A  CONWAY  AGAIN  591 

the  torch  which  had  cost  capital  its  money,  and  the  mill 
people  their  living. 

They  were  not  long  acting.  Mammy  Maria  had 
flown  to  the  little  cottage  —  a  crazy,  hysterical  creature 

—  a  wreck  of  herself  —  overworked  in  body  and  mind, 
and  frenzied  between  the  deed  and  the  promptings  of 
a  blind  superstitious  religion. 

Lily  hung  to  her  neck  sobbing,  and  the  old  woman 
in  her  pitiful  fright  was  brought  back  partly  to  reason 
in  the  great  love  of  her  life  for  the  little  child.  Even 
in  her  feebleness  she  was  soothing  her  pet. 

There  were  oaths,  curses  and  trampling  of  many 
feet  as  they  rushed  in  and  seized  her.  Lily,  screaming, 
was  held  by  rough  arms  while  they  dragged  the  old 
nurse  away. 

Into  a  wood  nearby  they  took  her,  the  rope  was  thrown 
over  a  limb,  the  noose  placed  around  her  neck. 

"  Pray,  you  old  witch  —  we  will  give  you  five  minutes 
to  pray." 

The  old  woman  fell  on  her  knees,  but  instead  of  pray 
ing  for  herself,  she  prayed  for  her  executioners. 

They  jeered  —  they  laughed.  One  struck  her  with 
a  stick,  but  she  only  prayed  for  them  the  more. 

"  String  her  up,"  they  shouted  —  "  her  time's  up !  " 

"Stand  back  there!" 

The  words  rang  out  even  above  the  noise  of  the 
crowd.  Then  a  man,  with  the  long  blue  deadly  barrel 
of  the  Colt  forty-four,  pushed  his  way  through  them 

—  his  face  pale,  his  fine  mouth  set  firm  and  close,  and 
the  splendid  courage  of  many  generations  of  Conways 
shining  in  his  eyes. 


592        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  Stand  back! — "  and  he  said  it  in  the  old  com 
manding  way  —  the  old  way  which  courage  has  ever  had 
in  the  crises  of  the  world. 

"  O  Marse  Ned  !  —  I  knowed  you'd  come !  " 

He  had  cut  the  rope  and  the  old  woman  sat  on  the 
ground  clasping  his  feet. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  over  her,  his  pale  calm  face 
showing  the  splendor  of  determination  in  the  glory  of 
his  manhood  restored.  For  a  moment  the  very  beauty 
of  it  stopped  them  —  this  man,  this  former  sot  and 
drunkard,  this  old  soldier  arising  from  the  ashes  of  his 
buried  past,  a  beautiful  statue  of  courage  cut  out  of 
the  marble  of  manhood.  The  moral  beauty  of  it  — 
this  man  defending  with  his  life  the  old  negro  —  struck 
even  through  the  swine  of  them. 

They  ceased,  and  a  silence  fell,  so  painful  that  it 
hurt  in  its  very  uncanniness. 

Then  Edward  Con  way  said  very  clearly,  very  slowly, 
but  with  a  fitful  nervous  ring  in  his  voice :  "  Go  back 
to  your  homes!  Would  you  hang  this  poor  old  woman 
without  a  trial?  Can  you  not  see  that  she  has  lost  her 
mind  and  is  not  responsible  for  her  acts?  Let  the  law 
decide.  Shall  not  her  life  of  unselfishness  and  good 
deeds  be  put  against  this  one  insane  act  of  her  old  age? 
Go  back  to  your  homes!  Some  of  you  are  my  friends, 
some  my  neighbors  —  I  ask  you  for  her  but  a  fair  trial 
before  the  law." 

They  listened  for  a  moment  and  then  burst  into 
jeers,  hoots,  and  hisses: 

"  Hang  her,  now !     That's  the  way  all  lawyers  talk !  " 


A  CONWAY  AGAIN 

And  one  shouted  above  the  rest :  "  He's  put  up  a 
plea  of  insanity  a-ready.  Hang  her,  now !  " 

Edward  Conway  flashed  hot  through  his  paleness  and 
he  placed  himself  before  the  bowed  and  moaning  form 
while  the  crowd  in  front  of  him  surged  and  shouted  and 
called  for  a  rope. 

He  felt  some  one  touch  his  arm  and  turned  to  find 
the  sheriff  by  his  side  —  one  of  those  disreputables  who 
infested  the  South  after  the  war,  holding  office  by  the 
votes  of  the  negroes. 

"  Better  let  'em  have  her, —  it  ain't  worth  the  while. 
You'll  hafter  kill,  or  be  killed." 

"  You  scallawag ! "  said  Conway,  now  purple  with 
anger — "  is  that  the  way  you  respect  your  sworn  oath? 
And  you  have  been  here  and  seen  all  this  and  not  raised 
your  hand  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  fool  enuff  to  tackle  that  crowd 
of  hillbillies  ?  They've  got  the  devil  in  them  —  fur 
they've  got  a  devil  leadin'  'em  —  Jud  Carpenter.  Bet 
ter  let  'em  have  her  —  they'll  kill  you.  We've  got  a 
good  excuse  —  overpowered  —  don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  Overpowered  ?  That's  the  way  all  cowards  talk," 
said  Conway.  "  Do  one  thing  for  me,"  he  said  quickly 
— "  tell  them  you  have  appointed  me  your  deputy.  If 
you  do  not  —  I'll  fall  back  on  the  law  of  riots  and  ap 
point  myself." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  sheriff,  turning  to  the  crowd, 

and   speaking   half-shamedly  — "  Gentlemen,   it's   better 

an'  I  hopes  you  all  will  go  home.     We  don't  wanter  hurt 

nobody.     I  app'ints  Major  Conway  my  deputy  to  takt» 

38 


594.        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

the  prisoner  to  jail.  Now  the  blood  be  on  yo'  own 
heads.  I've  sed  my  say." 

A  perfect  storm  of  jeers  met  this.  They  surged  for 
ward  to  seize  her,  while  the  sheriff  half  frightened,  half 
undecided,  got  behind  Conway  and  said : — "  It's  up  to 
you  —  I've  done  all  I  cu'd." 

"  Go  back  to  your  homes,  men  " —  shouted  Conway 
— "  I  am  the  sheriff  here  now,  and  I  swear  to  you  by  the 
living  God  it  means  I  am  a  Conway  again,  and  the  man 
who  lays  a  hand  on  this  old  woman  is  as  good  as  dead 
in  his  tracks !  " 

For  an  instant  they  surged  around  him  cursing  and 
shouting;  but  he  stood  up  straight  and  terribly  silent; 
only  his  keen  grey  eyes  glanced  down  to  the  barrel  of 
his  pistol  and  he  stood  nervously  fingering  the  small 
blue  hammer  with  his  thumb  and  measuring  the  dis 
tance  between  himself  and  the  nearest  ruffian  who  stood 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  mob  shaking  a  pistol  in  Con- 
way's  face  and  shouting :  "  Come  on,  men,  we'll  lynch 
her  anyway !  " 

Then  Conway  acted  quickly.  He  spoke  a  few  words 
to  the  old  nurse,  and  as  she  backed  off  into  the  nearby 
wood,  he  covered  the  retreat.  To  his  relief  he  saw  that 
the  sheriff,  now  thoroughly  ashamed,  had  hold  of  the 
prisoner  and  was  helping  her  along. 

In  the  edge  of  the  wood  he  felt  safe with  the 

trees  at  his  back.  And  he  took  courage  as  he  heard  the 
sheriff  say: 

"  If  you  kin  hold  'em  a  little  longer  I'll  soon  have 
my  buggy  here  and  we'll  beat  'em  to  the  jail." 

But  the  mob  guessed  his  plans,  and  the  man  who  had 


A  CONWAY  AGAIN  595 

been  most  insolent  in  the  front  of  the  mob  —  a  long 
haired,  narrow-chested  mountaineer  —  rushed  up  vic 
iously. 

Conway  saw  the  gleam  of  his  pistol  as  the  man  aimed 
and  fired  at  the  prisoner.  Instinctively  he  struck  at  the 
weapon  and  the  ball  intended  for  the  prisoner  crushed 
spitefully  into  his  left  shoulder.  He  reeled  and  the 
grim  light  of  an  aroused  Conway  flashed  in  his  eyes  as 
he  recovered  himself,  for  a  moment,  shocked,  blinded. 
Then  he  heard  some  one  say,  as  he  felt  the  blood  trick 
ling  down  his  arm  and  hand: 

"  Marse  Ned !  Oh,  an'  for  po'  ole  Zion !  Don't  risk 
yo'  life  —  let  'em  take  me  !  " 

Dimly  he  saw  the  mob  rushing  up ;  vaguely  it  came 
to  him  that  it  was  kill  or  be  killed.  Vaguely,  too,  that 
it  was  the  law  —  his  law  —  and  every  other  man's  law 
—  against  lawlessness.  Hazily,  that  he  was  the  law  — 
its  representative,  its  defender,  and  then  clear  as  the 
blue  barrel  in  his  hand, —  all  the  dimness  and  uncer 
tainty  gone, —  it  came  to  him,  that  thing  that  made  him 
say :  "  I  am  a  Conway  again !  " 

Then  his  pistol  leaped  from  the  shadow  by  his  side 
to  the  gray  light  in  front,  and  the  man  who  had  fired 
and  was  again  taking  aim  at  the  old  woman  died  in  his 
tracks  with  his  mouth  twisted  forever  into  the  shape  of 
an  unspoken  curse. 

It  was  enough.  Stricken,  paralyzed,  they  fell  back 
before  such  courage  —  and  Conway  found  himself 
backing  off  into  the  woods,  covering  the  retreat  of  the 
prisoner.  Then  afterward  he  felt  the  motion  of  buggy 
wheels,  and  of  a  galloping  drive,  and  the  jail,  and  he  in 
the  sheriff's  room,  the  old  prisoner  safe  for  the  time. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

DIED    FOR    THE    LAW 

AND  thus  was  begun  that  historical  lynching  in  the 
Tennessee  Valley  —  a  tragedy  which  well  might 
have  remained  unwritten  had  it  not  fallen  into 
the  woof  of  this  story. 

A  white  man  had  been  killed  for  a  negro  —  that  was 
enough* 

It  is  true  the  man  was  attempting  to  commit  murder 
in  the  face  of  the  law  of  the  land ;  and  in  attempting  it 
had  shot  the  representative  of  the  law.  It  is  true,  also, 
that  he  had  no  grievance,  being  one  of  several  hundred 
law-breakers  bent  on  murder.  This,  too,  made  no  dif 
ference  ;  they  neither  thought  nor  cared ;  —  for  mobs, 
being  hradless,  do  not  think ;  and  being  soulless,  do  not 
suffer. 

They  had  failed  only  for  lack  of  a  leader. 

But  now  they  had  a  leader,  and  a  mob  with  a  leader 
is  a  dargerous  thing. 

That  leader  was  Richard  Travis. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  he  rode  up  on  the  scene. 
Before  he  arrived,  Jud  Carpenter  had  aroused  the  mob 
to  do  its  first  fury,  and  still  held  them,  now  doubly 
vengeful  and  shouting  to  be  led  against  the  jail.  But 
to  storm  a  jail  they  needed  a  braver  man  than  Jud 
Carpenter.  And  they  found  him  in  Richard  Travis  — 

596 


DIED  FOR  THE  LAW  597 

especially  Richard  Travis  in  the  terrible  mood,  the  black 
despair  which  had  come  upon  him  that  night. 

Why  did  he  come?  He  could  not  say.  In  him  had 
surged  two  great  forces  that  night  —  the  force  of  evil 
and  the  force  of  good.  Twice  had  the  good  overcome 
—  now  it  was  the  evil's  turn,  and  like  one  hypnotized, 
he  was  led  on. 

He  sat  his  horse  among  them,  pale  and  calm,  but  with 
a  cruel  instinct  flashing  in  his  eyes.  At  least,  so  Jud 
Carpenter  interpreted  the  mood  which  lay  upon  him; 
but  no  one  knew  the  secret  workings  of  this  man's  heart, 
save  God. 

He  had  come  to  them  haggard  and  blanched  and 
with  a  nameless  dread,  his  arm  tied  up  where  the  dog's 
fang  had  been  buried  in  his  flesh,  his  heart  bitter  in  the 
thought  of  the  death  that  was  his  Already  he  felt  the 
deadly  virus  pulsing  through  his  veins.  A  hundred 
times  in  the  short  hour  that  had  passed  he  suffered  death 
• —  death  beginning  with  the  gripping  throat,  the  short 
ened  breath,  the  foaming  mouth,  the  spasm! 

He  jerked  in  the  saddle  —  that  spasmodic  chill  of 
the  nerves, —  and  he  grew  white  and  terribly  silent  at 
the  thought  of  it  —  the  death  that  was  his  ! 

Was  his!  And  then  he  thought:  "No,  there  shall 
be  another  and  quicker  way  to  die.  A  braver  way  — 
like  a  Travis  —  with  my  boots  on  —  my  boots  on  — 
and  not  like  a  mad-dog  tied  to  a  stake. 

"  Besides  —  Alice  —  Alice !  " 

She  had  gone  out  of  his  life.  Could  such  a  thing  be 
and  he  live  to  tell  it  ?  Alice  —  love  —  ambition  —  the 
future  —  life!  Alice,  hazle-cycd  and  glorious,  with 


598        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

hair  the  smell  of  which  filled  his  soul  with  perfume  as 
from  the  stars.  She  who  alone  uplifted  him  —  she 
another's,  and  that  other  Tom  Travis! 

Tom  Travis  —  returned  and  idealized  —  with  him, 
the  joint  heir  of  The  Gaffs. 

And  that  mad-dog  —  that  damned  mad-dog !  And 
if  perchance  he  was  saved  —  if  that  virus  was  sucked 
out  of  his  veins,  it  was  she  —  Helen ! 

"  This  is  the  place  to  die,"  he  said  grimly  — "  here 
with  my  boots  on.  To  die  like  a  Travis  and  unravel 
this  thing  called  life.  Unravel  it  to  the  end  of  the 
thread  and  know  if  it  ends  there,  is  snapped,  is  broken 
or  — 

"  Or  —  my  God,"  he  cried  aloud,  "  I  never  knew  what 
those  two  little  letters  meant  before  —  not  till  I  face 
them  this  way,  on  the  Edge  of  Things !  " 

He  gathered  the  mob  together  and  led  them  against 
the  jail  —  with  hoots  and  shouts  and  curses;  with  flam 
ing  torches,  and  crow-bars,  with  axes  and  old  guns. 

"  Lynch  her  —  lynch  the  old  witch !  and  hang  that 
devil  Conway  with  her ! "  was  the  shout. 

In  front  of  the  jail  they  stopped,  for  a  man  stood  at 
the  door.  His  left  arm  was  in  a  sling,  but  in  his  right 
hand  gleamed  something  that  had  proved  very  deadly 
before.  And  he  stood  there  as  he  had  stood  in  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  and  the  bonfires  and  torches  of  the 
mob  lit  up  more  clearly  the  deadly  pale  face,  set  and 
more  determined  than  before. 

For  as  he  stood,  pale  and  silent,  the  shaft  of  a  ter 
rible  pain, —  of  broken  bone  and  lacerated  muscle  — 
twinged  and  twitched  his  arm,  and  to  smother  it  and 


DIED  FOR  THE  LAW  599 

keep   from  crying  out  he  gripped  bloodlessly  —  nerv 
ously  —  the  stock  of  his  pistol  saying  over  and  over : 
"  I  am  a  Conway  again  —  a  man  again !  " 
And    so   standing   he   defied   them    and   they   halted, 
like  sheep  at  the  door  of  the  shambles.     The  sheriff  had 
flown,    and   Conway    alone    stood   between   the    frenzied 
mob  and  the  old  woman  who  had  given  her  all  for  him. 
He    could    hear    her   praying    within  —  an    uncanny 
mixture  of  faith  and  miracle  —  of  faith  which  saw  as 
Paul  saw,  and  which  expected  angels  to  come  and  break 
down  her  prison  doors.     And  after  praying  she  would 
break  out  into  a  song,  the  words  of  which  nerved  the 
lone  man  who  stood  between  her  and  death  i 

6  I'm  a  pilgrim,  and  I'm  a  stranger, 
I  can  tarry,  I  can  tarry  but  a  night. 
Do  not  detain  me,  for  I  am  going 
To  where  the  streamlets  are  ever  flowing. 
I'm  a  pilgrim  —  and  I'm  a  stranger 
I  can  tarry  —  I  can  tarry  but  a  night.'  " 

And  now  the  bonfire  burned  brighter,  lighting  up 
the  scene  —  the  shambling  stores  around  the  jail  on  the 
public  square,  the  better  citizens  making  appeals  in 
vain  for  law  and  order,  the  shouting,  fool-hardy  mob, 
waiting  for  Richard  Travis  to  say  the  word,  and  he 
sitting  among  them  pale,  and  terribly  silent  with  some 
thing  in  his  face  they  had  never  seen  there  before. 

Nor  would  he  give  the  command.  He  had  nothing 
against  Edward  Conway  —  he  did  not  wish  to  see  him 
killed. 


600        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

And  the  mob  did  not  attack,  although  they  cursed 
and  bluffed,  because  each  one  of  them  knew  it  meant 
death  —  death  to  some  one  of  them,  and  that  one  might 
be  — I! 

Between  life  and  death  "  I  "  is  a  bridge  that  means 
it  all. 

A  stone  wall  ran  around  the  front  of  the  jail.  A 
small  gate  opened  into  the  jail-yard.  At  the  jail  door, 
covering  that  opening,  stood  Edward  Conway. 

They  tried  parleying  with  him,  but  he  would  have 
none  of  it. 

"  Go  back  — "  he  said,  "  I  am  the  sheriff  here  —  I 
am  the  law.  The  man  who  comes  first  into  that  gate 
will  be  the  first  to  die." 

In  ten  minutes  they  made  their  attack  despite  the 
command^  of  their  leader,  who  still  sat  his  horse  on  the 
public  square,  pale  and  with  a  bitter  conflict  raging  in 
his  breast. 

With  shouts  and  curses  and  a  headlong  rush  they  went. 
Pistol  bullets  flew  around  Conway's  head  and  scattered 
brick  dust  and  mortar  over  him.  Torches  gleamed 
through  the  dark  crowd  as  stars  amid  fast  flying  clouds 
in  a  March  night.  But  through  it  all  every  man  of 
them  heard  the  ringing  warning  words : 

"  Stop  at  the  gateway  —  stop  at  the  dead  line !  " 

Right  at  it  they  rushed  and  crowded  into  it  like  cat 
tle  —  shooting,  cursing,  throwing  stones. 

Then  two  fell  dead,  blocking  the  gateway.  Two 
more,  wounded,  with  screams  of  pain  which  threw  the 
others  into  that  indescribable  panic  which  comes  to  all 


DIED  FOR  THE  LAW  601 

mobs  in  the  death-pinch,  staggered  back  carrying  the 
mob  with  them. 

Safe  from  the  bullets,  they  became  frenzied. 

The  town  trembled  with  their  fury. 

All  order  was  at  an  end. 

And  Edward  Conway  stood,  behind  a  row  of  cotton 
bales,  in  the  jail-yard,  covering  still  the  little  gateway, 
and  the  biting  pain  in  his  shoulder  had  a  companion  pain 
in  his  side,  where  a  pistol  ball  had  ploughed  through, 
but  he  forgot  it  as  he  slipped  fresh  cartridges  into  the 
chambers  of  his  pistol  and  heard  again  the  chant  which 
came  from  out  the  jail  window,  like  a  ghost-voice  from 
the  clouds: 

•i 

"  Of  that  City,  to  which  I  journey, 
My  Redeemer,  my  Redeemer  is  the  light. 
There  is  no  sorrow,  nor  any  sighing, 
Nor  any  tears  there,  nor  any  dying.      .      .     , 
I'm  a  pilgrim,  and  I'm  a  stranger, 
I  can  tarry  —  I  can  tarry  but  a  night." 

At  a  long  distance  they  shot  at  Conway, —  they  hoot 
ed,  jeered,  cursed  him,  but  dared  not  come  closer,  for 
he  had  breast-worked  himself  behind  some  cotton-bales 
in  the  yard,  and  they  knew  he  could  still  shoot. 

Then  they  decided  to  batter  down  the  stone  wall  first 
-  to  make  an  opening  they  could  rush  through,  and  not 
be  blocked  in  the  deadly  gateway. 

An  hour  passed,  and  torches  gleamed  everywhere. 
Attacking  the  wall  farther  down,  they  soon  had  it  torn 
away.  They  could  now  get  to  him.  It  was  a  perilous 


602        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

position,  and  Con  way  knew  it.     Help  —  he  must  have  it 

—  help  to  protect  his  flank  while  he  shot  in  front.     If 
not,  he  would  die  soon,  and  the  law  with  him. 

He  looked  around  him  —  but  there  was  no  solution. 
Then  he  felt  that  death  was  near,  for  the  mob  now 
hated  him  more  than  they  did  the  prisoner.  They 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  her,  for  all  their  cry  now 
was: 

"  Kill  Conway!  Kill  the  man  who  murdered  our 
people!  " 

In  ten  minutes  they  were  ready  to  attack  again,  but 
looking  up  they  saw  a  strange  sight. 

Help  had  come  to  Conway.  On  one  side  of  him  stood 
the  old  Cottontown  preacher,  his  white  hair  reflecting 
back  the  light  from  the  bonfires  and  torches  in  front  — 
lighting  up  a  face  which  now  seemed  to  have  lost  all  of 
its  kindly  humor  in  the  crisis  that  was  there.  He  was 
unarmed,  but  he  stood  calm  and  with  a  courage  that  was 
more  of  sorrow  than  of  anger. 

By  him  stood  the  village  blacksmith,  a  man  with  the 
wild  light  of  an  old,  untamed  joy  gleaming  in  his  eyes 

—  a  cruel,  dangerous  light  —  the  eyes  of  a  caged  tiger 
turned  loose  at  last,  and  yearning  for  the  blood  of  the 
thing  which  had  caged  him. 

And  by  him  in  quiet  bravery,  commanding,  directing, 
stood  the  tall  figure  of  the  Captain  of  Artillery. 

When  Richard  Travis  saw  him,  a  cruel  smile  deepened 
in  his  eyes.  "  I  am  dying  myself,"  it  said  — "  why  not 
kill  him?" 

Then  he  shuddered  with  the  hatred  of  the  terrible 
thing  that  had  come  into  his  heart  —  the  thing  that 


DIED  FOR  THE  LAW  603 

made  him  do  its  bidding,  as  if  he  were  a  puppet,  and 
overthrew  all  the  good  he  had  gathered  there,  that  ter 
rible  night,  as  the  angels  were  driven  from  Paradise. 
And  yet,  how  it  ruled  him,  how  it  drove  him  on! 

"  Jim  —  Jim,"  he  whispered  as  he  bent  over  his 
horse's  neck  — "  Jim  —  my  repeating  rifle  over  the  li 
brary  door  —  quick  —  it  carries  true  and  far !  " 

As  Jim  sped  away  his  master  was  silent  again.  He 
thought  of  the  nobility  of  the  things  he  had  done  that 
night  —  the  touch  of  God  that  had  come  over  him  in 
making  him  save  Helen  —  the  beautiful  dreams  he  had 
had.  He  thought  of  it  all  —  and  then  —  here  —  now 

—  murdering  the  man  whose  life  carried  with  it  the  life, 
the  love  of  — 

He  looked  up  at  the  stars,  and  the  old  wonder  and 
doubt  came  back  to  him  —  the  old  doubt  which  made 
him  say  to  himself :  "  It  is  nothing  —  it  is  the  end. 
Dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  —  dust  —  dust  —  dust  — ;J 
he  bit  his  tongue  to  keep  from  saying  it  again  — "  Dust 

—  to  be  blown  away  and  mingle  with  the  elements  — 
dust !      And  yet,   I   stand   here  —  now  —  blood  —  flesh 

—  a   thinking    man  —  tempted  —  terribly  —  cruelly  — • 
poignantly  —  dying  —  of  a   poison   in   my  veins  —  of 
sorrow  in  my  heart  —  sorrow  and  death.     Who  would 
not  take  the  dust  —  gladly  take  it  —  the  dust  and  the 

—  forgetting." 

He  remembered  and  repeated : 

"  Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting, 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 


604        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting 
And  cometh  from  afar — " 

"'And  cometh  from  afar,'"  he  whispered — "My 
God  —  suppose  it  does  —  and  that  I  am  mistaken  in  it 
all  ?  — Dust  —  and  then  maybe  something  after  dust." 

With  his  rifle  in  his  hand,  it  all  vanished  and  he  began 
to  train  it  on  the  tall  figure  while  the  mob  prepared  to 
storm  the  jail  again  —  and  his  shot  would  be  the  signal 

—  this  time  in  desperate  determination  to  take  it  or  die. 
In  the  mob  near  Richard  Travis  stood  a  boy,  careless 

and  cool,  and  holding  in  his  hand  an  old  pistol.  Richard 
Travis  noticed  the  boy  because  he  felt  that  the  boy's  eyes 
were  always  on  him  —  always.  When  he  looked  down 
into  them  he  was  touched  and  sighed,  and  a  dream  of  the 
long-ago  swept  over  him  —  of  a  mountain  cabin  and  a 
maiden  fair  to  look  upon.  He  bit  his  lip  to  keep  back 
the  tenderness  —  bit  his  lip  and  rode  away  —  out  of 
reach  of  the  boy's  eyes. 

But  the  boy,  watching  him,  knew,  and  he  said  in  his 
quiet,  revengeful  way :  "  Twice  have  I  failed  to  kill  you 

—  but  to-night  —  my  Honorable  father  —  to-night  in 
the  death  that  will  be  here,  I  shall  put  this  bullet  through 
your  heart." 

Travis  turned  to  the  mob :  "  Men,  when  I  fire  this 
rifle  —  it  will  mean  for  you  to  charge !  " 

A  hush  fell  over  the  crowd  as  they  watched  him.  He 
looked  at  his  rifle  closely.  He  sprang  the  breech  and 
threw  out  a  shell  or  two  to  see  that  it  worked  properly. 

"  Stay  where  you  are,  men,"  came  that  same  voice  they 
had  heard  so  plainly  before  that  night.  "  We  are  now 


DIED  FOR  THE  LAW  605 

four  and  well  armed  and  sworn  to  uphold  the  law  and 
protect  the  prisoner,  and  if  you  cross  the  dead  line  you 

will  die." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  that  old  voice  again,  the 
voice  that  roused  the  mob  to  fury : 

"  I'm  a  pilgrim,  and  I'm  a  stranger, 
I  can  tarry  —  I  can  tarry  but  a  night  — " 

"Lead  us  on  —  give  the  signal,  Richard  Travis," 
they  shouted. 

Again  the  science  fell  as  Richard  Travis  raised  his  rifle 
and  aimed  at  the  tall  figure  outlined  closely  and  with 
magnified  distinctness  in  the  glare  of  bonfire  and  torch. 
How  splendidy  cool  and  brave  he  looked  —  that  tall 
figure  standing  there,  giving  orders  as  calmly  as  he  gave 
them  at  Shiloh  and  Franklin,  and  so  forgetful  of  him 
self  and  his  own  safety ! 

Richard  Travis  brought  his  rifle  down  —  it  shook  so 
—  brought  it  down  saying  to  himself  with  a  nervous 
laugh :  "  It  is  not  Tom  —  not  Tom  Travis  I  am  going 
to  kill  —  it's  —  it's  Alice's  husband  of  only  two  days  — 
her  lover — 

"Shoot!  Why  don't  you  shoot?"  they  shouted. 
"  We  are  waiting  to  rush  — 

Even  where  he  stood,  Richard  Travis  could  see  the  old 
calm,  quiet  and  now  triumphant  smile  lighting  up  Tom 
Travis's  face,  and  he  knew  he  was  thinking  of  Alice  — 
Alice,  his  bride. 

And  then  that  same  nervous,  uncanny  chill  ran  into 
the  very  marrow  of  Richard  Travis  and  brought  his  gun 


606        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTON  TOWN 

down  with  an  oath  on  his  lips  as  he  said  pitifully  — "  I 
am  poisoned  —  it  is  that !  " 

The  crowd  shouted  and  urged  him  to  shoot,  but  he  sat 
shaking  to  his  very  soul.  And  when  it  passed  there  came 
the  old  half  humorous,  half  bitter,  cynical  laugh  as  he 
said  :  "  Alice  —  Alice  a  widow — ' 

It  passed,  and  again  there  leaped  into  his  eyes  the 
great  light  Jud  Carpenter  had  seen  there  that  morning, 
and  slipping  the  cartridges  out  of  the  barrel's  breech,  he 
looked  up  peacefully  with  the  halo  of  a  holy  light  around 
his  eyes  as  he  said :  "  Oh,  God,  and  I  thank  Thee  —  for 
this  —  this  touch  again !  Hold  the  little  spark  in  my 
heart  • —  hold  it,  oh,  God,  but  for  a  little  while  till  the 
temptation  is  gone,  and  I  shall  rest  —  I  shall  rest." 

"  Shoot  —  Richard  Travis  —  why  the  devil  don't  you 
shoot?  "  they  shouted. 

Pie  raised  his  rifle  again,  this  time  with  a  flourish 
which  made  some  of  the  mob  think  he  was  taking  un 
necessary  risk  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  grim  black 
smith  who  stood,  pistol  in  hand,  his  piercing  eyes  scan 
ning  the  crowd.  He  stood  by  the  side  of  Tom  Travis, 
his  bodyguard  to  the  last. 

"  Jack  —  Jack  — "  kept  whispering  to  him  the  old 
preacher,  "  don't  shoot  till  you're  obleeged  to, —  maybe 
God'll  open  a  way,  maybe  you  won't  have  to  spill  blood. 
4  Vengeance  is  mine,'  saith  the  Lord." 

Jack  smiled.  It  was  a  strange  smile  —  of  joy,  in  the 
risking  glory  of  the  old  life  —  the  glory  of  blood-letting, 
of  killing,  of  death.  And  sorrow  —  sorrow  in  the  new. 

"  Stand  pat,  stand  pat,  Bishop,"  he  said ;  "  you  all 
know  the  trade.  Let  me  who  have  defied  the  law  so  long, 


DIED  FOR  THE  LAW  607 

let  me  now  stand  for  it  —  die  for  it.  It's  my  atone 
ment  —  ain't  that  the  word  ?  Ain't  that  what  you  said 
about  that  there  Jesus  Christ,  the  man  you  said 
wouldn't  flicker  even  on  the  Cross,  an'  wouldn't  let  us 
flicker  if  we  loved  Him  —  Hoi'  him  to  His  promise,  now, 
Bishop.  It's  time  for  us  to  stand  pat.  No  —  I'll  not 
shoot  unless  I  see  some  on  'em  makin'  a  too  hasty  move 
ment  of  gun-arm  toward  Cap'n  — 

Had  Richard  Travis  looked  from  his  horse  down  into 
the  crowd  he  had  seen  another  sight.  Man  can  think 
and  do  but  one  thing  at  a  time,  but  oh,  the  myrmidons  of 
God's  legions  of  Cause  and  Effect ! 

Below  him  stood  a  boy,  his  face  white  in  the  terrible 
tragedy  of  his  determination.  And  as  Richard  Travis 
threw  up  his  empty  rifle,  the  octagonal  barrel  of  the 
pistol  in  the  boy's  hand  leaped  up  and  came  straight  to 
the  line  of  Richard  Travis's  heart.  But  before  the  boy 
could  fire  Travis  saw  the  hawk-like  flutter  of  the  black 
smith's  pistol  arm,  as  it  measured  the  distance  with  the 
old  quick  training  of  a  bloody  experience,  and  Richard 
Travis  smiled,  as  he  saw  the  flash  from  the  outlaw's 
pistol  and  felt  that  uncanny  chill  starting  in  his  marrow 
again,  leap  into  a  white  heat  to  the  shock  of  the  ball,  and 
he  pitched  limply  forward,  slipped  from  his  horse  and 
went  down  on  the  ground  murmuring,  "  Tom  —  Tom  — • 
safe,  and  Alice  —  he  shot  at  last  —  and  —  thank  God 
for  the  touch  again  !  " 

He  lay  quiet,  feeling  the  life  blood  go  out  of  him. 
But  with  it  came  an  exhalation  he  had  never  felt  before 
—  a  glory  that,  instead  of  taking,  seemed  to  give  him 
life. 

The  mob  rushed  wildly  at  the  jail  at  the  flash  of  Jack 


608        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

Bracken's  pistol,  all  but  c^e,  a  boy  —  whose  old  dueling 
pistol  still  pointed  at  the  space  in  the  air,  where  Richard 
Travis  had  sat  a  moment  before  —  its  holder  nerveless  — 
rigid  —  as  if  turned  into  stone. 

He  saw  Richard  Travis  pitch  forward  off  his  horse 
and  slide  limply  to  the  ground.  He  saw  him  totter  and 
waver  and  then  sit  down  in  a  helpless,  pitiful  way, — 
then  lie  down  as  if  it  were  sweet  to  rest. 

And  still  the  boy  stood  holding  his  pistol,  stunned, 
frigid,  numbed  —  pointing  at  the  stars. 

Silently  he  brought  his  arm  and  weapon  down.  He 
heard  only  shouts  of  the  mob  as  they  rushed  against  the 
jail,  and  then,  high  above  it,  the  words  of  the  blacksmith, 
whom  he  loved  so  well :  "  Stand  back  —  all ;  Me  — 
me  alone,  shoot  —  me !  I  who  have  so  often  killed  the 
law,  let  me  die  for  it." 

And  then  came  to  the  boy's  ears  the  terrible  staccato 
cough  of  the  two  Colts  pistols  whose  very  fire  he  had 
learned  to  know  so  well.  And  he  knew  that  the  black 
smith  alone  was  shooting  —  the  blacksmith  he  loved  so 
• —  the  marksman  he  worshipped  —  the  man  who  had 
saved  his  life  —  the  man  who  had  just-  shot  his  father. 

Richard  Travis  sat  up  with  an  effort  and  looked  at  the 
boy  standing  by  him  —  looked  at  him  with  frank,  kindly 
eyes, —  eyes  which  begged  forgiveness,  and  the  boy  saw 
himself  there  —  in  Richard  Travis,  and  felt  a  hurtful, 
pitying  sorrow  for  him,  and  then  an  uncontrolled,  hot 
anger  at  the  man  who  had  shot  him  out  of  the  saddle. 
His  eyes  twitched  wildly,  his  heart  jumped  in  smothering 


DIED  FOR  THE  LAW  609 

beats,  a  dry  sob  choked  him,  and  he  sprang  forward  cry 
ing  :    "  My  father  —  oh,  God  —  my  poor  father !  " 

Richard  Travis  looked  up  and  smiled  at  him. 

"  You  shoot  well,  my  son,"  he  said,  "  but  not  quick 
enough." 

The  boy,  weeping,  saw.  Shamed,  —  burning  —  he 
knelt  and  tried  to  staunch  the  wound  with  a  handker 
chief.  Travis  shook  his  head :  "  Let  it  out,  my  son  — 
let  it  out  —  it  is  poison !  Let  it  out !  " 

Then  he  lay  down  again  on  the  ground.  It  felt  sweet 
to  rest. 

The  boy  saw  his  blood  on  the  ground  and  he  shouted  : 
"  Blood, —  my  father  —  blood  is  thicker  than  water." 

Then  the  hatred  that  had  burned  in  his  heart  for  his 
father,  the  father  who  had  begot  him  into  the  world,  dis 
graced,  forsaken  —  the  father  who  had  ruined  and  aban 
doned  his  mother,  was  turned  into  a  blaze  of  fury  against 
the  blacksmith,  the  blacksmith  whom  he  had  loved. 

Wheeling,  he  rushed  toward  the  jail,  but  met  the  mob 
pouring  panic-stricken  back  with  white  faces,  blanched 
with  fear. 

Jack  Bracken  stood  alone  on  the  barricade,  shoving 
more  cartridges  into  his  pistol  chambers. 

The  boy,  blinded,  weeping,  hot  with  a  burning  re 
venge,  stumbled  and  fell  twice  over  dead  men  lying  near 
the  gate-way.  Then  he  crawled  along  over  them  under 
cover  of  the  fence,  and  kneeling  within  twenty  feet  of  the 
gate,  fired  at  the  great  calm  figure  who  had  driven  the 
mob  back,  and  now  stood  reloading. 

Jack  did  not  see  the  boy  till  he  felt  the  ball  crush 
into  his  side.  Then  all  the  old,  desperate,  revengeful 


39 


610        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

instinct  of  the  outlaw  leaped  into  his  eyes  as  he  quickly 
turned  his  unerring  pistol  on  the  object  from  whence 
the  flash  came.  Never  had  he  aimed  so  accurately,  so 
carefully,  for  he  felt  his  own  life  going  out,  and  this  — 
this  was  his  last  shot  —  to  kill. 

But  the  object  kneeling  among  the  dead  arose  with  a 
smile  of  revengeful  triumph  and  stood  up  calmly  under 
the  aim  of  the  great  pistol,  his  fair  hair  flung  back,  his 
face  lit  up  with  the  bravery  of  all  the  Travises  as  he 
shouted : 

"  Take  that  —  damn  you  —  from  a  Travis !  " 

And  when  Jack  saw  and  understood,  a  smile  broke 
through  his  bloodshot,  vengeful  eyes  as  starlight  falls 
on  mudd}^  waters,  and  he  turned  away  his  death-seeking 
aim,  and  his  mouth  trembled  as  he  said: 

«  \vhy  —  it's  —  it's  the  Little  'Un!  I  cudn't  kill 
him — "  and  he  clutched  at  the  cotton-bale  as  he  went 
down,  falling  —  and  Captain  Tom  grasped  him,  letting 
him  down  gently. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   ATONEMENT 

AND  now  no  one  stood  between  the  prisoner  and 
death  but  the  old  preacher  and  the  tall  man 
in  the  uniform  of  a  Captain  of  Artillery.  And 
death  it  meant  to  all  of  them,  defenders  as  well  as 
prisoners,  for  the  mob  had  increased  in  numbers  as  in 
fury.  Friends,  kindred,  brothers,  fathers  —  even 
mothers  and  sisters  of  the  dead  were  there,  bitter  in  the 
thought  that  their  dead  had  been  murdered  —  white  men, 
for  one  old  negress. 

In  their  fury  they  did  not  think  it  was  the  law  they 
themselves  were  murdering.  The  very  name  of  the  law 
was  now  hateful  to  them  —  the  law  that  had  killed  their 
people. 

Slowly,  surely,  but  with  grim  deadliness  they  laid  their 
plans  —  this  time  to  run  no  risk  of  failure. 

There  was  a  stillness  solemn  and  all-pervading.  And 
from  the  window  of  the  jail  came  again  in  wailing  un 
canny  notes :  — 

"  I'm  a  pilgrim  and  I'm  a  stranger, 

I  can  tarry,  I  can  tarry  but  a  night  — " 

It  swept  over  the  mob,  frenzied  now  to  the  stillness  of 
a  white  heat,  like  a  challenge  to  battle,  like  the  flaunt  of 

611 


612        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

a  red  flag.  Their  dead  lay  all  about  the  gate  of  the  rock 
fence,  stark  and  still.  Their  wounded  were  few  —  for 
Jack  Bracken  did  not  wound.  They  saw  them  all  — 
dead  —  lying  out  there  dead  —  and  they  were  willing  to 
die  themselves  for  the  blood  of  the  old  woman  —  a  negro 
for  whom  white  men  had  been  killed. 

But  their  wrath  now  took  another  form.  It  was  the 
wrath  of  coolness.  They  had  had  enough  of  the  other 
kind.  To  rush  again  on  those  bales  of  cotton  doubly 
protected  behind  a  rock  fence,  through  one  small  gate, 
commanded  by  the  fire  of  such  marksmen  as  lay  there, 
was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

They  would  burn  the  jail  over  the  heads  of  its  de 
fenders  and  kill  them  as  they  were  uncovered.  A  hun 
dred  men  would  fire  the  jail  from  the  rear,  a  hundred 
more  with  guns  would  shoot  in  front. 

It  was  Jud  Carpenter  who  planned  it,  and  soon  oil  and 
saturated  paper  and  torches  were  prepared. 

"  We  are  in  for  it,  Bishop,"  said  Captain  Tom,  as  he 
saw  the  preparation ;  "  this  is  worse  than  Franklin,  be 
cause  there  we  could  protect  our  rear." 

He  leaped  up  on  his  barricade,  tall  and  splendid,  and 
called  to  them  quietly  and  with  deadly  calm : 

"  Go  to  your  homes,  men  —  go !  But  if  you  will  come, 
know  that  I  fought  for  my  country's  laws  from  Shiloh 
to  Franklin,  and  I  can  die  for  them  here !  " 

Then  he  took  from  over  his  heart  a  small  silken  flag, 
spangled  with  stars  and  the  blood-splotches  of  his  father 
who  fell  in  Mexico,  and  he  shook  it  out  and  flung  it 
over  his  barricade,  saying  cheerily :  "  I  am  all  right 
for  a  fight  now,  Bishop.  But  oh,  for  just  one  of  my 


THE  ATONEMENT  613 

guns  —  just  one  of  my  old  Parrots  that  I  had  last  week 
at  Franklin !  " 

The  old  man,  praying  on  his  knees  behind  his  barri 
cade,  said: 

"  Twelve  years  ago,  Cap'n  Tom,  twelve  years.  Not 
last  week." 

The  mob  had  left  Richard  Travis  for  dead,  and  in  the 
fury  of  their  defeat  had  thought  no  more  of  him.  But 
now,  the  loss  of  blood,  the  cool  night  air  revived  him.  He 
sat  up,  weak,  and  looked  around.  Everywhere  bonfires 
burned.  Men  were  running  about.  He  heard  their  talk 
and  he  knew  all.  He  was  shot  through  the  left  lung,  so 
near  to  his  heart  that,  as  he  felt  it,  he  wondered  how  he 
had  escaped. 

He  knew  it  by  the  labored  breathing,  by  the  blood 
that  ran  down  and  half  filled  his  left  boot.  But  his  was  a 
constitution  of  steel  —  an  athlete,  a  hunter,  a  horseman, 
a  man  of  the  open.  The  bitterness  of  it  all  came  back 
to  him  when  he  found  he  was  not  dead  as  he  had  hoped 
—  as  he  had  made  Jack  Bracken  shoot  to  do. 

"  To  die  in  bed  at  last,"  he  said,  "  like  a  monk  with 
liver  complaint  —  or  worse  still  —  my  God,  like  a  mad 
dog,  unless  —  unless  —  her  lips  —  Helen  !  " 

He  lay  quite  still  on  the  soft  grass  and  looked  up  at 
the  stars.  How  comfortable  he  was !  He  felt  around. 

A  boy's  overcoat  was  under  him  —  a  little  round 
about,  wadded  up,  was  his  pillow. 

He  smiled  —  touched :  "  What  a  man  he  will  make  — 
the  brave  little  devil !  Oh,  if  I  can  live  to  tell  him  he  is 
mine,  that  I  married  his  mother  secretly  —  that  I  broke 


614         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

her  heart  with  my  faithlessness  —  that  she  died  and  the 
other  is  —  is  her  sister." 

He  heard  the  clamor  and  the  talk  behind  him.  The 
mob,  cool  now,  were  laying  their  plans  only  on  revenge, 
—  revenge  with  the  torch  and  the  bullet. 

Jud  Carpenter  was  the  leader,  and  Travis  could  hear 
him  giving  his  orders.  How  he  now  loathed  the  man  — 
for  somehow,  as  he  thought,  Jud  Carpenter  stood  for 
all  the  seared,  blighted,  dead  life  behind  him  —  all  the 
old  disbelief,  all  the  old  infamy,  all  the  old  doubt  and 
shame.  But  now,  dying,  he  saw  things  differently. 
Yonder  above  him  shone  the  stars  and  in  his  heart  the 
glory  of  that  touch  of  God  —  the  thing  that  made  him 
wish  rather  to  die  than  have  it  leave  him  again  to  live 
in  his  old  way. 

He  heard  the  mob  talking.  He  heard  their  plans.  He 
knew  that  Jud  Carpenter,  hating  the  old  preacher  as  he 
did,  would  rather  kill  him  than  any  wolf  of  the  forest. 
He  knew  that  neither  Tom  Travis  nor  the  old  preacher 
could  ever  hope  to  come  out  alive. 

The  torches  were  ready  —  the  men  were  aligned  in 
front  with  deadly  shotguns. 

"When  the  fire  gets  hot,"  he  heard  Jud  Carpenter 
say,  "  they'll  hafter  come  out  —  then  shoot  —  shoot  an' 
shoot  to  kill.  See  our  own  dead  !  " 

They  answered  him  with  groans,  with  curses,  with 
shouts  of  "  Lead  us  on,  Jud  Carpenter!  " 

"  When  the  jail  is  fired  from  the  rear,"  shouted  Car 
penter,  "  stay  where  you  are  and  shoot ;  they've  no 
chance  at  all.  It's  fire  or  bullet." 

Richard  Travis  heard  it  and  his  heart  leaped  —  but 


THE  ATONEMENT  (515 

only  for  one  tempting  moment,  when  a  vision  of  loveli 
ness  in  widow's  weeds  swept  through  that  soul  of  his 
inner  sight,  which  sees  into  the  future.  Then  the  new 
light  came  back  uplifting  him  with  a  wave  of  joyous 
strength  that  was  sweetly  calm  in  its  destiny  —  glad  that 
he  had  lived,  glad  that  this  test  had  come,  glad  for  the 
death  that  was  coming. 

It  was  all  well  with  him. 

He  forgot  himself,  he  forgot  his  deadly  wound,  the 
bitterness  of  his  life,  the  dog's  bite  —  all  —  in  the  glory 
of  this  feeling,  the  new  feeling  which  now  would  go  with 
him  into  eternity. 

For,  as  he  lay  there,  he  had  seen  the  bell's  turret  above 
the  jail  and  his  mind  was  quick  to  act. 

He  smiled  faintly  —  a  happy  smile  —  the  smile  of  the 
old  Roman  ere  he  leaped  into  the  chasm  before  the  walls 
of  Rome  —  leaped  and  saved  his  countrymen.  He  loved 
to  do  difficult  things  —  to  conquer  and  overcome  where 
others  would  quit.  This  always  had  been  his  glory  —  he 
understood  that.  But  this  new  thing  —  this  wanting  to 
save  men  who  were  doomed  behind  their  barricade  —  this 
wanting  to  give  what  was  left  of  his  life  for  them  —  his 
enemies  —  this  was  the  thing  he  could  not  understand. 
He  only  knew  it  was  the  call  of  something  within  him, 
stronger  than  himself  and  kin  to  the  stars,  which,  clear 
and  sweet  above  his  head,  .seemed  to  be  all  that  stood  be 
tween  him  and  that  clear  Sweet  Thing  out,  far  out,  in 
the  pale  blue  Silence  of  Things. 

He  reached  out  and  found  his  rifle.  In  his  coat  pocket 
were  cartridges.  His  arms  were  still  strong  —  he  sprang 
the  magazine  and  filled  it. 


616        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWIV 

Then  slowly,  painfully,  he  began  to  crawl  off  toward 
the  jail,  pulling  his  rifle  along.  No  one  saw  him  but, 
God!  how  it  hurt!  .'  .  .  that  star  falling  .  .  .  . 
scattering  splinters  of  light  everywhere  .  .'V,,.  so 
he  lay  on  his  face  and  slept  awhile.  .  .  .  '•]  y 

When  he  awoke  he  flushed  with  the  shame  of  it: 
"  Fainted  —  me  —  like  a  girl !  "  And  he  spat  out  the 
blood  that  foiled  out  of  his  lips. 

Crawling  —  crawling  —  and  dragging  the  heavy  rifle. 
It  seemed  he  would  never  strike  the  rock  fence.  Once  — • 
twice,  and  yet  a  third  time  he  had  to  sink  flat  on  the 
grass  and  spit  out  the  troublesome  blood  '.'.';'  ...  v 

The  fence  at  last,  and  following  it  he  was  soon  in  the 
rear  of  the  jail.  He  knew  where  the  back  stair  was  and 
crawled  to  it.  Slowly,  step  by  step,  and  every  step 
splotched  with  his  blood,  he  went  up.  At  the  top  he 
pushed  up  the  trap-door  with  his  head  and,  crawling 
through,  fell  fainting. 

But,  oh,  the  glory  of  that  feeling  that  was  his  now! 

That  feeling  that  now  —  now  he  would  atone  for  it  all 

—  now  he  would  be  brother  to  the  stars  and  that  Sweeter 

Thing  out,  far  o*it,  in  the  pale  blue  Silence  of  Things. 

Then  the  old  Travis  spirit  came  to  him  and  he  smiled : 
"  Dominecker  —  oh,  my  old  grandsire,  will  you  think  I 
am  a  Dominecker  now?  I  found  your  will  —  in  the  old 
life  —  and  tore  it  up.  But  it's  Tom's  now  —  Tom's 
anyway  —  Dominecker!  Wipe  it  out  —  wipe  it  out!  If 
I  do  not  this  night  honor  your  blood,  strike  me  from  the 
roll  of  Travis." 

Around  him  was  the  belfry  railing,  waist  high  and 


THE  ATONEMENT  617 

sheeted  with  metal  save  four  holes,  for  air,  at  the  base, 
where  he  could  thrust  his  rifle  through  as  he  lay  flat. 

He  was  in  a  bullet  proof  turret,  and  he  smiled :  "  I 
hold  the  fort !  " 

Slowly  he  pulled  himself  up,  painfully  he  stood  erect 
and  looked  down.  Just  below  him  was  the  barricade  of 
cotton  bales,  its  two  defenders,  grim  and  silent  behind 
them  —  the  two  wounded  ones  lying  still  and  so  quiet  • — 
so  quiet  it  looked  like  death,  and  Richard  Travis  prayed 
that  it  was  not. 

One  of  them  had  given  him  his  death  wound,  but  he 
held  no  bitterness  for  him  —  only  that  uplif tedness,  only 
the  glory  of  that  feeling  within  him  he  knew  not  what. 

He  called  gently  to  them.  In  astonishment  they 
looked  up.  Thirty  feet  above  their  heads  they  saw  him 
and  heard  him  say  painfully,  slowly,  but  oh,  so  bravely : 
"  /  am  Richard  Travis,  Tom,  and  I'll  back  you  to  the 

death They  are  to  burn  you  out     .   r- ..    .  . 

but  I  command  the  jail,  both  front  and  rear.  Stay 
where  you  both  are  ,.,  .<•  .  be  careful  .  .  .  do 
not  expose  yourselves,  for  while  I  live  you  are  safe 
•'  .>tk  .  and  the  law  is  safe." 

And  then  came  back  to  him  clear  and  with  all  sweet 
ness  the  earnest  words  of  the  old  preacher : 

"  God  bless  you,  Richard  Travis,  for  He  has  sent  you 
jus'  in  time.  I  knew  that  He  would,  that  He'd  touch  yo> 
heart,  that  there  was  greatness  in  you  —  all  in  His  own 
time,  an'  His  own  good  way.  Praise  God !  " 

Travis  wished  to  warn  the  mob,  but  his  voice  was 
nearly  gone.  He  could  only  sink  down  and  wait. 

He  heard  shouts.     They  had  formed  in  the  rear,  and 


618        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

now  men  with  torches  came  to  fire  the  jail.  Their  com 
panions  in  front,  hearing  them,  shouted  back  their  ap 
proval. 

Richard  Travis  thrust  his  rifle  barrel  through  the  air 
hole  and  aimed  carefully.  The  torches  they  carried 
made  it  all  so  plain  and  so  easy. 

Then  two  long,  spiteful  flashes  of  flame  leaped  out  of 
the  belfry  tower  and  the  arm  oi  the  first  incendiary,  shot 
through  and  through  —  holding  his  blazing  torch, 
leaped  like  a  rabbit  in  a  sack,  and  the  torch  went  down 
and  out.  The  torch  of  the  second  one  was  shot  out  of 
its  bearer's  hand. 

Panic-stricken,  they  looked  up,  saw,  and  fled.  Those 
in  front  also  saw  and  bombarded  the  belfry  with  shot  and 
pistol  ball.  And  then,  on  their  side  of  the  belfry,  the 
same  downward,  spiteful  flashes  leaped  out,  and  two  men, 
shot  through  the  shoulder  and  the  arm,  cried  out  in  dis 
may,  and  they  all  fell  back,  stampeded,  at  the  deadliness 
of  the  spiteful  thing  in  the  tower,  the  gun  that  carried 
so  true  and  so  far  —  so  much  farther  than  their  own 
cheap  guns. 

They  rushed  out  of  its  range,  gathered  in  knots  and 
cursed  and  wondered  who  it  was.  But  they  dared  not 
come  nearer.  Travis  lay  still.  He  could  not  speak  now, 
for  the  blood  choked  him  when  he  opened  his  mouth,  and 
the  stars  which  had  once  been  above  him  now  wheeled 
and  floated  below,  and  around  him.  And  that  Sweeter 
Thing  that  had  been  behind  the  stars  now  seemed  to  sur 
round  him  as  a  halo,  a  halo  of  silence  which  seemed  to  fit 
the  silence  of  his  own  soul  and  become  part  of  him  for 
ever.  It  was  all  around  him,  as  he  had  often  seen  it 


THE  ATONEMENT  C19 

around  the  summer  moon ;  only  now  he  felt  it  where  he 
only  saw  it  before.  And  now,  too,  it  was  in  his  heart  and 
filled  it  with  a  sweet  sadness,  a  sadness  that  hurt,  it  was 
so  sweet,  and  which  came  with  an  odor,  the  smell  of  the 
warm  rain  falling  on  the  dust  of  a  summer  of  long  ago. 

And  all  his  life  passed  before  him  —  he  lived  it  again 

-  even  more  than  he  had  remembered  before  —  even  the 

memory  of  his  mother  whom  he  never  knew ;  but  now  he 

knew  her  and  he  reached  up  his  arms  —  for  he  was  in  a 

cradle  and  she  bent  over  him  —  he  reached  up  his  arms 

and  said :  "  Oh,  mother,  now  I  know  what  eternity  is 

it's  remembering  before  and  after!  " 

Visions,  too  —  and  Alice  Westmore  —  Alice,  pitying 
and  smiling  approval  —  smiling, —  and  then  a  burning 
passionate  kiss,  and  when  he  would  kiss  again  it  was 
Plelen's  lips  he  met. 

And  through  it  all  the  great  uplifting  joy,  and  some 
thing  which  made  him  try  to  shout  and  say :  "  The 
atonement  —  the  atonement  — " 

Clear  now  and  things  around  him  seemed  miles  away. 

He  knew  he  was  sinking  and  he  kicked  one  foot  savage 
ly  against  the  turret  to  feel  again  the  sensation  of  life 
in  his  limb.  Then  he  struck  himself  in  his  breast  with  his 
right  fist  to  feel  it  there.  But  in  spite  of  all  he  saw  a 
cloud  of  darkness  form  beyond  the  rim  of  the  starlit  hori 
zon  and  come  sweeping  over  him,  coming  in  black  waves 
that  would  rush  forward  and  then  stop  —  forward,  and 
stop  —  forward  and  stop.  .  v  .  •  And  the  stops  kept 
time  exactly  with  his  heart,  and  he  knew  the  last  stop  of 
the  wave  meant  the  last  beat  of  his  heart  —  then  for- 


620        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

ward  ...  for  the  last  time.  ..."  Oh,  God, 
not  yet!  ;.,;,>.  .  Look!" 

His  heart  rallied  at  the  sight  and  beat  faster,  making 
the  black  waves  pulse,  in  the  flow  and  ebb  of  it     .     .      . 
The  thing  was  below  him     ...     a  man      .      .     ..... 

a  ghostly,  vengeful  thing,  whose  face  was  fierce  in  hatred 
.  .  .  crawling,  crawling,  up  to  the  rock  fence  —  a 
snake  with  the  face  »  .  .  the  eyes  of  Jud  Carpen 
ter  .  .  . 

And  the  black  wave  coming  in  ...  and  he  did 
so  want  to  live  .  .  .  just  a  little  .  .  .  just 
a  while  longer 

He  pushed  the  wave  back,  as  he  gripped  for  the  last 
time  his  rifle's  stock,  and  he  knew  not  whether  it  was  only 
visions  such  as  he  had  been  seeing  .  . ,  . ,  or  Jud  Car 
penter  really  crouching  low  behind  the  rock  fence,  his 
double-barrel  shotgun  aimed  .  .  .  drawing  so  fine 
a  bead  on  both  the  unconscious  defenders  .  ?  ..'  >  go 
ing  to  shoot,  and  only  twenty  paces,  and  now  it  rose  up, 
aiming :  "  God,  it  is  —  it  is  Jud  Carpenter  .  .  . 
back  —  back  —  black  z:-ave!  "  he  cried,  "  and  God  have 
mercy  on  your  soul,  Jud  Carpenter  .  .  ." 

And,  oh,  the  nightmare  of  it !  —  trying  to  pull  the 
trigger  that  would  not  be  pulled,  trying  to  grip  a  stock 
that  had  grown  so  large  it  was  now  a  tree  —  a  huge  tree 
—  flowing  red  blood  instead  of  sap,  red  blood  over 
things,  „ .-^Vi'  .  and  then  at  last  .  .  .  thank  God 
,if.  ,.<  ,...  the  trigger  .  .  .  and  the  flash  and  re 
port  .  i,jt'  , ,  the  flash  so  far  off  .  .  .  and  the  re 
port  that  was  like  thunder  among  the  stars  .  .  .  the 
stars.  .  .  .  Among  the  stars  ...  all  around 


THE  ATONEMENT  621 

him  .  .  .  and  Alice  on  one  star  throwing  him  a 
kiss  .  .  .  and  saying:  "  You  saved  his  life,  oh, 
Richard,  and  I  love  you  for  it!  "  A  kiss  and  forgive 
ness  .  .  .  and  the  two  walking  out  with  him 
.  .  .  out  into  the  dim,  blue,  Sweet  Silence  of  Things, 
hand  in  hand  with  him,  beyond  even  the  black  wave,  be 
yond  even  the  rim  of  the  rainbow  that  came  down  over 
all  out  —  out  with  music,  quaint,  sweet,  weird 

music  —  that  filled  his  soul  so,  fitted  him  .  .'  V  was 
he  /:  .  ; 

"  I'm  .   .  .  a  pilgrim  .  .  .  I'm  a  stranger, 
I  can  tarry  —  I  can  tarry  but  a  night.'' 

In  the  early  dawn,  a  local  company  of  State  troops, 
called  out  by  the  governor,  had  the  jail  safe. 

It  was  a  gruesome  sight  in  front  of  the  stone  wall 
where  the  deadly  fire  from  Jack  Bracken's  pistols  had 
swept.  Thirteen  dead  men  lay,  and  the  back-bone  of 
lynching  had  been  broken  forever  in  Alabama. 

It  was  the  governor  himself,  bluff  and  rugged,  who 
grasped  Jack  Bracken's  hand  as  he  lay  dying,  wrapped 
up,  on  a  bale  of  cotton,  and  Margaret  Adams,  pale, 
weeping  beside  him :  "  Live  for  me,  Jack  —  I  love  you. 
I  have  always  loved  you !  " 

"  And  for  me,  Jack,"  said  the  old  governor,  touched 
at  the  scene  — "  for  the  state,  to  teach  mobs  how  to  re 
spect  the  law.  In  the  glory  of  what  you've  done,  I 
pardon  you  for  all  the  past." 

"  It  is  fitten,"  said  Jack,  simply ;  "  fitten  that  I  should 
die  for  the  law  —  I  who  have  been  so  lawless." 


622        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

He  turned  to  Margaret  Adams :  "  You  are  lookiir* 
somethin'  you  want  to  say  —  I  can  tell  by  yo'  eyes." 

She  faltered,  then  slowly :  "  Jack,  he  was  not  my  son 
—  my  poor  sister  —  I  could  not  see  her  die  disgraced." 

Jack  drew  her  down  and  kissed  her. 

And  as  his  eyes  grew  dim,  a  figure,  tall  and  in  military 
clothes,  stood  before  him,  shaken  with  grief  and  saying, 
"  Jack  —  Jack,  my  poor  friend  - 

Jack's  mind  was  wandering,  but  a  great  smile  lit  up 
his  face  as  he  said  :  "  Bishop  —  Bishop  —  is  —  is  —  it 
Cap'n  Tom,  or  —  or  —  Jesus  Christ?"  And  so  he 
passed  out. 

And  up  above  them  all  in  the  belfry,  lying  prone,  but 
still  gripping  his  rifle's  stock  which,  sweeping  the  jail 
with  its  deadly  protruding  barrel,  had  held  back  hun 
dreds  of  men,  they  found  Richard  Travis,  a  softened 
smile  on  his  lips  as  if  he  had  just  entered  into  the  glory 
of  the  great  Sweet  Silence  of  Things.  And  by  him  sat 
the  old  preacher,  where  he  had  sat  since  Richard  Travis's 
last  shot  had  saved  the  jail  and  the  defenders;  sat  and 
bound  up  his  wound  and  gave  him  the  last  of  his  old 
whiskey  out  of  the  little  flask,  and  stopped  the  flow  of 
blood  and  saved  the  life  which  had  nearly  bubbled  out. 

And  as  they  brought  the  desperately  wounded  man 

down  to  the  surgeon  and  to  life,  the  old  governor  raised 

his  hat  and  said :     "  The  Travis  blood  —  the  Irish  Gray 

—  when   it's   wrong   it   is   hell  —  when    it's   right   it   is 

heaven." 

But  the  old  preacher  smiled  as  he  helped  carry  him 
tenderly  down  and  said :  "  He  is  right,  forever  right, 
now,  Gov'nor.  God  has  made  him  so.  See  that  smile  on 


THE  ATONEMENT  623 

his  lips !  He  has  laughed  before  —  that  was  from  the 
body.  He  is  smiling  now  —  that  is  from  the  soul.  His 
soul  is  born  again." 

The  old  governor  smiled  and  turned.  Edward  Con- 
way,  wounded,  was  sitting  up.  The  governor  grasped 
his  hand :  "  Ned,  my  boy,  I've  appointed  you  sheriff 
of  this  county  in  place  of  that  scallawag  who  deserted  his 
post.  Stand  pat,  for  you're  a  Conway  —  no  doubt  about 
that.  Stand  pat." 

Under  the  rock  wall,  they  found  a  man,  dead  on  his 
knees,  leaning  against  the  wall ;  his  gun,  still  cocked  and 
deadly,  was  resting  against  his  shoulder  and  needing 
only  the  movement  of  a  finger  to  sweep  with  deadly  hail 
the  cotton -bales.  His  scraggy  hair  topped  the  rock 
fence  and  his  staring  eyes  peeped  over,  each  its  own  way. 
And  one  of  them  looked  forward  into  a  future  which  was 
Silence,  and  the  other  looked  backward  into  a  past  which 
was  Sin. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  SHADOWS  AND  THE  CLOUDS 

WHEN  Richard  Travis  came  to  himself  after  that 
terrible  night,  they  told  him  that  for  weeks 
he  had  lain  with  only  a  breath  between  him 
and  death. 

"  It  was  not  my  skill  that  has  saved  you,"  said  the 
old  surgeon  who  had  been  through  two  wars  and  who 
knew  wounds  as  he  did  maps  of  battlefields  he  had  fought 
on.  "  No,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  "  no,  it  was  not 
I  —  it  was  something  beyond  me.  That  you  miracu 
lously  live  is  proof  of  it." 

He  was  in  his  room  at  The  Gaffs,  and  everything 
looked  so  natural.  It  was  sweet  to  live  again,  for  he  was 
yet  young  and  life  now  meant  so  much  more  than  it  ever 
had.  Then  his  eyes  fell  on  the  rug,  wearily,  and  he  re 
membered  the  old  setter. 

"  The  dog  —  and  that  other  one?  " 

He  sat  up  nervously  in  bed,  trembling  with  the 
thought.  The  old  surgeon  guessed  and  bade  him  be 
quiet. 

"  You  need  not  fear  that,"  he  said,  touching  his  arm. 
"  The  time  has  passed  for  fear.  You  were  saved  by  the 
shadow  of  death  and  —  the  blood  letting  you  had  — 
and,  well,  a  woman's  lips,  as  many  a  man  has  been  saved 
before  you.  You'd  better  sleep  again  now.  .  .  ." 

624 


SHADOWS  AND  CLOUDS  625 

He  slept,  but  there  were  visions  as  there  had  been  all 
along.  And  two  persons  came  in  now  and  then.  One 
was  Tom  Travis,  serious  and  quiet  and  very  much  in 
earnest  that  the  patient  might  get  well. 

Another  was  Tom's  wife,  Alice,  who  arranged  the 
wounded  man's  pillows  with  a  gentleness  and  deftness  as 
only  she  could,  and  who  gave  quiet  orders  to  the  old  cook 
in  a  way  that  made  Richard  Travis  feel  that  things  were 
all  right,  though  he  could  not  speak,  nor  even  open  his 
eyes  long  enough  to  see  distinctly. 

A  month  afterward  Richard  Travis  was  sitting  up. 
His  strength  came  very  fast.  For  a  week  he  had  sat  by 
the  fire  and  thought  —  thought.  But  no  man  knew  what 
was  in  his  mind  until  one  day,  after  he  had  been  able  to 
walk  over  the  place,  he  said: 

"  Tom,  you  and  Alice  have  been  kinder  to  me  —  far 
kinder  —  than  I  have  deserved.  I  am  going  away  for 
ever,  next  week  —  to  the  Northwest  —  and  begin  life 
over.  But  there  is  something  I  wish  to  say  to  you  first." 

"  Dick,"  said  his  cousin,  and  he  arose,  tall  and  splen 
did,  before  the  firelight  — "  there  is  something  I  wish  to 
say  to  you  first.  Our  lives  have  been  far  apart  and  very 
different,  but  blood  is  blood  and  you  have  proved  it,  else 
I  had  not  been  here  to-night  to  tell  it." 

He  came  over  and  put  his  hand  affectionately  on  the 
other's  shoulder.  At  its  touch  Richard  Travis  softened 
almost  to  tears. 

"  Dick,  we  two  are  the  only  grandsons  that  bear  his 
name,  and  we  divide  this  between  us.  Alice  and  I  have 
planned  it.  You  are  to  retain  the  house  and  half  the 


40 


626        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTON  TOWN 

land.  We  have  our  own  and  more  than  enough.  You 
will  do  it,  Dick?" 

Richard  Travis  arose,  strangely  moved.  He  grasped 
his  cousin's  hand.  "  No,  no,  Tom,  it  is  not  fair.  No 
Travis  was  ever  a  welcher.  It  is  all  yours  —  you  do  not 
understand  —  I  saw  the  will  —  I  do  not  want  it.  I  am 
going  away  forever.  My  life  must  lead  now  in  other 
paths.  But—" 

The  other  turned  quickly  and  looked  deep  into  Rich 
ard  Travis's  eyes.  "  I  can  see  there  is  no  use  of  my  try 
ing  to  change  your  mind,  Dick,  though  I  had  hoped — 

The  other  shook  his  head.  It  meant  a  Travis  decision, 
and  his  cousin  knew  it. 

"  But  as  I  started  to  say,  Tom,  and  there  is  no  need 
of  my  mincing  words,  if  you'll  raise  that  boy  of  mine — " 
he  was  silent  awhile,  then  smiling:  "  He  is  mine  and 
more  of  a  Travis  to-day  than  his  father  ever  was.  If 
you  can  help  him  and  his  aunt — 

"  He  shall  have  the  half  of  it,  Dick,  and  an  educa 
tion,  under  our  care.  We  will  make  a  man  of  him,  Alice 
and  I." 

Richard  Travis  said  no  more. 

The  week  before  he  left,  one  beautiful  afternoon,  he 
walked  over  to  Millwood  for  the  last  time.  For  Edward 
Con  way  was  now  sheriff  of  the  county,  and  with  the  as 
sistance  of  the  old  bishop,  whose  fortune  now  was  se 
cured,  he  had  redeemed  his  home  and  was  in  a  fair  way 
to  pay  back  every  dollar  of  it. 

A  new  servant  ushered  Travis  in,  for  the  good  old 
nurse  had  passed  away,  the  strain  of  that  terrible  night 


SHADOWS  AND  CLOUDS  627 

being  too  much,  first,  for  her  reason,  and  afterwards,  her 
life. 

Edward  Conway  was  away,  but  Helen  came  in  present 
ly,  and  greeted  him  with  such  a  splendid  high-born  way, 
so  simple  and  so  unaffected  that  he  marveled  at  her  self- 
control,  feeling  his  own  heart  pulsing  strangely  at  sight 
of  her.  In  the  few  months  that  had  elapsed  how  changed 
she  was  and  how  beautiful !  This  was  not  the  romantic, 
yet  buffetted,  beautiful  girl  who  had  come  so  near  being 
the  tragedy  of  his  old  life  ?  How  womanly  she  now  was, 
and  how  calm  and  at  her  ease !  Could  independence  and 
the  change  from  poverty  and  worry,  the  strong,  free 
feeling  of  being  one's  self  again  and  in  one's  sphere, 
make  so  great  a  difference  in  so  short  a  while?  He  won 
dered  at  himself  for  not  seeing  farther  ahead.  He  had 
come  to  bid  her  good-bye  and  offer  again  —  this  time  in 
all  earnestness  and  sincerity,  to  take  her  with  him  —  to 
share  his  life  —  but  the  words  died  in  his  mouth. 

He  could  no  more  have  said  them  than  he  could  have 
profanely  touched  her. 

When  he  left  she  walked  with  him  to  the  parting  of 
the  ways. 

The  blue  line  of  tremulous  mountain  was  scrolled 
along  a  horizon  that  flamed  crimson  in  the  setting  sun. 
A  flock  of  twilight  clouds  —  flamingoes  of  the  sky  — 
floated  toward  the  sunset  as  if  going  to  roost.  Beyond 
was  the  great  river,  its  bosom  as  wan,  where  it  lay  in  the 
shadow  of  the  mountain,  as  Richard  Travis's  own  cheek ; 
but  where  the  sunset  fell  on  it  the  reflected  light  turned  it 
to  pink  which  to  him  looked  like  Helen's. 

The  wind   came  down   cool   from  the   frost-tinctured 


628        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

mountain  side,  and  the  fine  sweet  odor  of  life  everlasting 
floated  in  it  —  frost-bitten  —  and  bringing  a  wave  of 
youth  and  rabbit  hunts  and  of  a  life  of  dreams  and  the 
sweet  unclouded  far-off  hope  of  things  beautiful  and  im 
mortal.  And  the  flow  of  it  hurt  Richard  Travis  —  hurt 
him  with  a  tenderness  that  bled. 

The  girl  stopped  and  drank  in  the  beauty  of  it  all,  and 
he  stood  looking  at  her,  "  the  picture  for  the  frame  " — • 
as  he  said  to  himself. 

It  had  rained  and  the  clouds  were  scattered,  yet  so 
full  that  they  caught  entirely  the  sunset  rays  and  held 
them  as  he  would  that  moment  have  loved  to  hold  her. 
Something  in  her  —  something  about  her  thrilled  him 
strangely,  as  he  had  often  been  thrilled  when  looking 
at  the  great  pictures  in  the  galleries  of  the  old  world. 
He  repeated  softly  to  her,  as  she  stood  looking  forward 
—  to  him  —  into  the  future : 

"  What  thou  art  we  know  not, 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody." 

She  turned  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  I  must  bid  you  good-bye  now  and  I  wish  you  all 
happiness  —  so  much  more  than  you  have  ever  had  in 
all  your  life." 

He  took  it,  but  he  could  not  speak.  Something  shook 
him  strangely.  He  knew  nothing  to  say.  Had  he  spoken, 
he  knew  he  had  stammered  and  blundered. 


SHADOWS  AND  CLOUDb  629 

Never  had  the  Richard  Travis  of  old  done  such  a 
thing. 

"  Helen  —  Helen  —  if  —  if  —  you  know  once  I  asked 
you  to  go  with  me  —  once  —  in  the  old,  awful  life. 
Now,  in  the  new  —  the  new  life  which  you  can  make 
sweet  — " 

She  came  up  close  to  him.  The  sun  had  set  and  the 
valley  lay  in  silence.  When  he  saw  her  eyes  there  were 
tears  in  them  —  tears  so  full  and  deep  that  they  hurt 
him  when  she  said : 

"  It  can  never  —  never  be  —  now.  You  made  me  love 
you  when  you  could  not  love ;  and  love  born  of  despair 
is  mateless  ever;  it  would  die  in  its  realization.  Mine, 
for  you,  was  that — "  She  pointed  to  the  sunset.  "  It 
breathed  and  burned.  I  saw  it  only  because  of  clouds, 
of  shadow.  But  were  the  clouds,  the  shadows,  gone  — 

"  There  would  be  no  life,  no  burning,  no  love,"  he  said. 
"  Ah,  I  think  I  understand,"  and  his  heart  sank  with 
pain.  What  —  why  —  he  could  not  say,  only  he  knew 
it  hurt  him,  and  he  began  to  wonder. 

"  You  do  not  blame  me,"  she  said  as  she  still  held  his 
hand  and  looked  up  into  his  eyes  in  the  old  way  he  had 
seen,  that  terrible  night  at  Millwood. 

For  reply  he  held  her  hand  in  both  of  his  and  then  laid 
it  over  his  heart.  She  felt  his  tears  fall  on  it,  tears,  which 
even  death  could  not  bring,  had  come  to  Richard  Travis 
at  last,  and  he  wondered.  In  the  old  life  he  never  won 
dered  —  he  always  knew ;  but  in  this  —  this  new  life  — • 
it  was  all  so  strange,  so  new  that  he  feared  even  himself. 
Like  a  sailor  lost,  he  could  only  look  up,  by  day,  help 
lessly  at  the  sun,  and,  by  night,  helplessly  at  the  stars. 


630        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

"  Helen  —  Helen,"  he  said  at  last,  strangely  shaken  in 
it  all, —  "  if  I  could  tell  you  now  that  I  do  —  that  I 
could  love  — " 

She  put  her  hand  over  his  mouth  in  the  old  playful 
way  and  shook  her  head,  smiling  through  her  tears: 
"  Do  not  try  to  mate  my  love  with  a  thing  that  balks." 

It  was  simply  said,  and  forceful.  It  was  enough. 
Richard  Travis  blushed  for  very  shame. 

"  Do  you  not  see,"  she  said,  "  how  hopeless  it  is  ?  Do 
you  not  know  that  I  was  terribly  tempted  —  weak  — 
maddened  —  deserted  that  night?  That  now  I  know 
what  Clay's  love  has  been?  Oh,  why  do  we  not  learn 
early  in  life  that  fire  will  burn,  that  death  will  kill,  that 
we  are  the  deed  of  all  we  think  and  feel  —  the  wish  of 
all  we  will  to  be?" 

Travis  turned  quickly:  "  Is  that  true?  Then  let  me 
wish  —  as  I  do,  Helen ;  let  me  wish  that  I  might  love  you 
as  you  deserve." 

She  saddened :  "  Oh,  but  you  have  wished  —  you 
have  willed  —  too  often  —  too  differently.  It  can  never 
be  now." 

"  I  understand  you,"  he  said.  "  It  is  natural  —  I 
should  say  it  is  nature  —  nature,  the  never-lying.  I  but 
reap  my  own  folly,  and  now  good-bye  forever,  Helen, 
and  may  God  bless  you  and  bring  you  that  happiness 
you  have  deserved." 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said  calmly,  "  that  I  have 
thought  of  all  that,  too.  There  are  so  many  of  us  in  the 
world,  and  so  little  happiness  that  like  flowers  it  cannot 
go  around  —  some  must  go  without." 


SHADOWS  AND  CLOUDS  631 

She  held  his  hand  tightly  as  if  she  did  not  want  him 
to  go. 

"  My  child,  I  must  go  out  of  your  life  —  go  —  and 
stay.  I  see  —  I  see  —  and  I  only  make  you  wretched. 
And  I  have  no  right  to.  It  is  ignoble.  It  is  I  who  should 
bear  this  burden  of  sorrow  —  not  you.  You  who  have 
never  sinned,  who  are  so  young  and  so  beautiful.  In 
time  you  will  love  a  nobler  man  —  Clay  — " 

She  looked  at  him,  but  said  nothing.  She  knew  for 
the  first  time  the  solution  of  her  love's  problem.  She 
was  silent,  holding  his  hand. 

"  Child,"  he  said  again.  "  Helen,  you  must  do  as  I 
say.  There  is  happiness  for  you  yet  when  I  am  gone  — 
when  I  am  out  of  your  life  and  the  memory  and  the  pain 
of  it  cease.  Then  you  will  marry  Clay  — " 

"  Do  you  really  think  so?  Oh,  and  he  has  loved  me  so 
and  is  so  splendid  and  true." 

Travis  was  silent,  waiting. 

"  Now  let  me  go,"  she  said  — "  let  me  forget  all  my 
madness  and  folly  in  learning  to  love  one  whose  love  was 
made  for  mine.  In  time  I  shall  love  him  as  he  deserves. 
Good-bye." 

Then  she  broke  impulsively  away,  and  he  watched  her 
walk  back  through  the  shadows  and  under  the  clouds. 

At  the  turning  of  the  path  across  the  meadow,  he  saw 
another  shadow  join  her.  It  was  Clay,  and  the  two  went 
through  the  twilight  together. 

Travis  turned.  "  It  is  right  —  it  is  the  solution  — 
he  alone  deserves  her.  I  must  reap  my  past,  reap  it  and 
see  my  harvest  blighted  and  bound  with  rotten  twine. 
But,  oh,  to  know  it  when  it  is  too  late  —  to  know  that  I 


632        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

might  love  her  and  could  be  happy  —  then  to  have  to 
give  it  up  —  now  —  now  —  when  I  need  it  most.  The 
Deed,"  he  said  — "  we  are  the  deed  of  all  we  think  and 
feel." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  MODEL  MILL 

THE  discovery  of  coal  and  iron  made  both  the  old 
Bishop  and  Westmoreland  rich.  Captain  Tom 
sent  James  Travis  to  West  Point  and  Archie  B. 
to  Annapolis,  and  their  records  were  worthy  of  their 
names. 

And  now,  five  years  after  the  great  fire,  there  might 
be  seen  in  Cottontown,  besides  two  furnaces,  whose  blaz 
ing  turrets  lighted  the  valley  with  Prosperity's  torch  — 
another  cotton  mill,  erected  by  the  old  Bishop. 

Long  and  earnestly  he  thought  on  the  subject  before 
building  the  mill.  Indeed,  he  first  prayed  over  it  and 
then  preached  on  the  subject,  and  this  is  the  sermon  he 
preached  to  his  people  the  Sunday  before  he  began  the 
erection  of  The  Model  Cotton  Mill: 

"  Now,  it's  this  way,  my  brethren :  God  made  cotton 
for  a  mill.  You  can't  get  aroun'  that ;  and  the  mill  is  to 
give  people  wuck  an'  this  wuck  is  to  clothe  the  worl'. 
That's  all  plain  an'  all  good,  because  it's  from  God.  Man 
made  the  bad  of  it  —  child  labor,  and  overwuck  and  poor 
pay  and  the  terrible  everlastin'  grind  and  foul  air  an' 
dirt  an'  squaller  an'  death, 

"  The  trouble  with  the  worl'  to-day  is  that  it  don't 
carry  God  into  business.  Why  should  we  not  be  kinder 

We 

633 


634        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

are  unselfish  in  everything  but  business.  All  social  life 
is  based  on  unselfishness.  To  charity  we  give  of  our 
tears  an'  our  money.  For  the  welfare  of  mankind  an' 
the  advancement  of  humanity  you  can  always  count  us  on 
the  right  side.  Even  to  those  whose  characters  are  rotten 
an'  whose  very  shadows  leave  dark  places  in  life,  we  pass 
the  courtesies  of  the  hour  or  the  palaverin'  compliments 
of  the  day.  But  let  the  struggle!*  for  the  bread  of  life 
come  along  and  ask  us  to  share  our  profits  with  him,  let 
the  dollar  be  the  thing  involved  an'  business  shrewdness 
the  principle  at  stake,  an'  then  all  charity  is  forgotten, 
every  man  for  himse'f,  an'  the  chief  aim  of  man  seems  to 
be  to  get  mo'  out  of  the  trade  than  his  brother. 

"  Now  the  soul  of  trade  is  Selfishness^  an'  Charity 
never  is  invited  over  her  doorway. 

"  I  have  known  men  with  tears  in  their  eyes  to  give 
to  the  poor  one  day  an'  rob  them  the  nex'  in  usurious  in 
terest  an'  rent,  as  cheerful  as  they  gave  the  day  befo'.  I 
have  known  men  to  open  their  purses  as  wide  as  the  gates 
of  hades  for  some  church  charity,  an'  then  close  them  the 
nex'  day,  in  a  business  transaction,  as  they  called  it  — 
with  some  helpless  debtor  or  unexperienced  widder.  The 
graveyard  is  full  of  unselfish,  devoted  fathers  an'  hus 
bands  who  worked  themselves  to  death  for  the  comfort 
an'  support  of  their  own  families,  yet  spendin'  their  days 
on  earth  tryin'  to  beat  their  neighbors  in  the  same  game. 

"  It's  funny  how  we're  livin'.  It's  amusin',  it  is  — 
our  ethics  of  Christianity.  We've  baptised  everything 
but  business.  We  give  to  the  church  an'  rob  the  poor. 
We  weep  over  misfortune  an'  steal  from  the  unfortunate. 
We  give  a  robe  to  Charity  one  day  and  filch  it  the  nex'. 


THE  MODEL  MILL  635 

We  lay  gifts  at  the  altar  of  the  Temple  of  Kindness  for 
the  Virgin  therein,  but  if  we  caught  her  out  on  the  high 
ways  of  trade  an'  commerce  we'd  steal  her  an'  sell  her 
into  slavery.  An'  after  she  was  dead  we'd  go  deep  into 
our  pockets  to  put  up  a  monument  over  her ! 

"  We  weep  an'  rob,  an'  smile  an'  steal,  an'  laugh  an' 
knife,  an'  wring  the  hand  of  friendship  while  we  step  on 
her  toes  with  our  brogans  of  business.  Can't  we  be  hones' 
without  bein'  selfish,  fair  without  graspin',  make  a  profit 
without  wantin'  it  all?  Is  it  possible  that  Christ's  re 
ligion  has  gone  into  every  nook  an'  corner  of  the  wori' 
an'  yet  missed  the  great  highway  of  business,  the  every 
day  road  of  dollars  an'  cents,  profit  an'  loss ! 

"  So  I  am  goin'  to  build  the  mill  an'  run  it  like  God 
intended  it  should  be  run,  an'  I  am  goin'  to  put,  for 
once,  the  plan  of  salvation  into  business,  if  it  busts  me 
an'  the  plan  too !  For  if  it  can't  stand  a  business  test  it 
ought  to  bust!  "  :, 

He  planned  it  all  himself,  and,  aided  by  Captain  Tom, 
and  Alice,  the  beautiful  structure  went  up.  Strong  and 
airy  and  with  every  comfort  for  the  workers.  "  For  it 
strikes  me,"  said  the  old  man,  "  that  the  people  who 
wuck  need  mo'  comforts  than  them  that  don't  —  at  least 
the  comforts  of  bein'  clean.  The  fust  thing  I  learned  in 
geography  was  that  God  made  three  times  as  much  water 
on  the  sufface  of  the  earth  as  he  did  dirt.  But  you 
wouldn't  think  so  to  look  at  the  human  race.  It  takes  us 
a  long  time  to  take  a  hint." 

The  big  mountain  spring  settled  the  point,  and  when 
the  mill  was  finished  there  were  hot  and  cold  baths  in  it 
for  the  tired  workers.  "  For  there's  nothin'  so  good," 


636        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

said  the  old  man,  "  for  a  hot  man  or  a  hot  boss  as  a 
warm  body-wash.  It  relaxes  the  muscles  an'  makes  them 
come  ag'in.  An'  the  man  that  comes  ag'in  is  the  man 
the  worl'  wants." 

In  the  homes  of  the  workers,  too,  he  had  baths  placed, 
until  it  grew  to  be  a  saying  of  the  good  old  man  "  that 
it  was  easier  to  take  a  bath  in  Cottontown  than  to  take 
a  drink." 

The  main  building  was  lofty  between  floor  and  ceiling, 
letting  in  all  the  light  and  air  possible,  and  the  floors  were 
of  hard-wood  and  clean.  As  the  greatest  curse  of  the 
cotton  lint  was  dust,  atomizers  for  spraying  the  air  were 
invented  by  Captain  Tom.  These  were  attached  to  the 
machinery  and  could  be  turned  off  or  on  as  the  operators 
desired.  It  was  most  comfortable  now  to  work  in  the 
mill,  and  tired  and  hot  employees,  instead  of  lounging 
through  their  noon,  bathed  in  the  cool  spring  water 
which  came  down  from  the  mountain  side  and  flowed  into 
the  baths,  not  only  in  the  mill,  but  through  every  cottage 
owned  by  the  mill.  And  as  the  bath  is  the  greatest 
civilizer  known  to  man,  a  marked  difference  was  soon 
noticed  in  every  inhabitant  of  Cottontown.  They  were 
cleanly,  and  cleanliness  begets  a  long  list  of  other  virtues, 
beginning  with  cleaner  and  better  clothes  and  ending 
with  ambition  and  godliness. 

But  it  was  the  old  Bishop's  policy  for  the  wage- 
earners,  which  put  the  ambition  there  —  a  system  never 
heard  of  before  in  the  ranks  of  capital,  and  first  tested 
and  proved  in  his  Model  Cotton  Mill. 

"  There  are  two  things  in  the  worl',"  said  the  Bishop, 
"  that  is  as  plain  as  God  could  write  them  without  tellin' 


THE  MODEL  MILL  637 

it  Himself  from  the  clouds.  The  first  is  that  the  money 
of  the  worl'  was  intended  for  all  the  worl'  that  reaches 
out  a  hand  an'  works  for  it. 

"  The  other  is  that  every  man  who  works  is  entitled 
to  a  home. 

"  It  was  never  intended  for  one  man,  or  one  corpora 
tion  or  one  trust  or  one  king  or  one  anything  else,  to  own 
more  than  his  share  of  the  money  of  the  worl',  no 
matter  how  they  get  it.  Every  man  who  piles  up  mo' 
money  than  he  needs  —  actually  needs  —  in  life,  robs 
every  other  man  or  woman  or  child  in  the  worl'  that 
pinches  and  slaves  and  starves  for  it  in  vain.  Every  man 
who  makes  a  big  fortune  leaves  just  that  many  wrecked 
homes  in  his  path." 

In  carrying  out  this  idea  the  old  bishop  had  the  mill 
incorporated  at  one  hundred  thousand  dollars,  which  in 
cluded  all  his  fortune,  except  enough  to  live  on  and 
educate  his  grandchildren;  for  he  never  changed  his 
home,  and  the  only  luxury  he  indulged  in  was  a  stable 
for  Ben  Butler. 

The  stock  was  divided  into  shares  of  ten  dollars  each, 
which  could  be  acquired  only  by  those  who  worked  in  the 
mill,  to  be  held  only  during  life-time,  and  earned  only  in 
part  payment  for  labor,  given  according  to  proficiency 
and  work  done,  and  credited  on  wages.  In  this  way 
every  employee  of  the  mill  became  a  stockholder  —  a 
partner  in  the  mill,  receiving  dividends  on  his  stock  in 
addition  to  his  regular  wages,  and  every  year  he  worked 
in  the  mill  added  both  to  his  stock  and  dividends.  At 
death  it  reverted  again  to  The  Model  Cotton  Mill  Com 
pany,  to  be  obtained  again,  in  turn,  by  other  mill  workers 


638        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

coming  on  up  the  line.  This  made  every  mill  worker  a 
partner  in  the  mill  and  spurred  them  on  to  do  their  best. 

But  the  home  idea  of  tJbe  bishop  was  the  more  original 
one,  and  a  far  greater  boon  to  the  people.  Instead  of 
paying  rent  to  the  mill  for  their  homes,  as  they  had  be 
fore,  every  married  mill  worker  was  deeded  a  home  in  the 
beginning,  a  certain  per  cent,  of  his  wages  being  appro 
priated  each  month  in  part  payment;  in  addition,  ten 
per  cent,  of  the  stock  acquired,  as  above,  by  each  indivi 
dual  home  owner,  went  to  the  payment  of  the  home,  and 
the  whole  was  so  worked  out  and  adjusted  that  by  the 
time  a  faithful  worker  had  arrived  at  middle  age,  the 
home,  as  paid  for,  was  absolutely  his  and  his  children's, 
and  when  he  arrived  at  old  age  the  dividends  of  the  stock 
acquired  were  sufficient  to  support  him  the  balance  of  his 
life. 

In  this  way  the  mill  was  virtually  resolved  into  a  cor 
poration  or  community  of  interests,  running  perpetually 
for  the  maintenance  and  support  of  those  who  worked  in 
it.  The  only  property  actually  acquired  by  the  indivi 
dual  was  a  home,  his  savings  in  wages,  and  the  dividends 
on  his  stock  acquired  by  long  service  and  work. 

Some  wanted  the  old  man  to  run  a  general  store  on 
the  same  plan  of  community  of  interest,  the  goods  and 
necessities  of  life  to  be  bought  at  first  cost  and  only  the 
actual  expenses  of  keeping  the  store  added.  But  he 
wisely  shook  his  head,  saying :  "  No,  that  will  not  do ; 
that's  forming  a  trust  ag'in  the  tillers  of  the  earth  an' 
the  workers  in  every  other  occupation.  That's  cuttin'  in 
on  hones'  competition,  an'  if  carried  out  everywhere 


THE  MODEL  MILL  639 

would  shut  off  the  rest  of  the  worP  from  a  livin'.  We're 
makin'  our  livin' —  let  then?  make  theirs." 

The  old  bishop  was  proud  of  the  men  he  selected  to 
carry  out  his  plans.  Captain  Tom  was  manager  of  the 
Model  Mill. 

"  Now,"  said  the  old  man,  after  the  mill  had  run  two 
years  and  declared  a  semi-annual  dividend,  Both  years,  of 
eight  per  cent,  each,  "  now  you  all  see  what  it  means  to 
run  even  business  by  the  Golden  Rule.  Here  is  this  big 
fortune  that  I  accidentally  stumbled  on,  as  everybody 
does  who  makes  one  —  put  out  like  God  intended  it 
sh'ud,  belonging  to  nobody  and  standing  there,  year 
after  year,  makin'  a  livin'  an'  a  home  an'  life  an'  happi 
ness  for  over  fo'  hundred  people,  year  in  an'  year  out, 
an'  let  us  pray  God,  forever.  It  was  not  mine  to  begin 
with  —  it  belonged  to  the  worl'.  God  put  the  coal  and 
iron  in  the  ground,  not  for  me,  but  for  everybody.  An' 
so  I've  given  it  to  everybody.  Because  I  happened  to 
own  the  Ian'  didn't  make  the  treasure  God  put  there 
mine,  any  mo'  than  the  same  land  will  be  mine  after  I've 
passed  away.  We're  only  trustees  for  humanity  for  all 
we  make  mo'  than  we  need,  jus'  as  we're  only  tenants  of 
God  while  we  live  on  the  earth." 

As  for  children,  the  bishop  settled  that  quickly  and 
effectively.  His  rule  was  that  no  boy  or  girl  under  six 
teen  should  be  permitted  to  work  in  the  mill,  and  to  save 
any  parents,  weakly  inclined,  from  the  temptation,  he 
established  a  physical  standard  in  weight,  height  and 
health. 

He  found  afterwards  there  was  really  small  need  of 


640         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

his  stringent  rule,  for  under  this  system  of  management 
the  temptations  of  child  labor  were  removed. 

Among  the  good  features  of  the  mill,  established  by 
Alice  Travis,  was  a  library,  a  pretty  little  building  in 
the  heart,  of  Cottontown.  It  was  maintained  yearly  by 
the  mill,  together  with  donations,  and  proved  to  be  the 
greatest  educational  and  refining  influence  of  the  mill. 
It  was  kept,  for  one  week  at  a  time,  by  each  girl  in  the 
mill  over  twenty,  the  privilege  always  being  given  by 
the  mill's  physician  to  the  girl  who  seemed  most  in  need 
of  a  week's  rest.  It  came  to  be  a  great  social  feature 
also,  and  any  pretty  afternoon,  and  all  Saturday  after 
noon, —  for  the  mill  never  ran  then  —  could  be  seen  there 
the  young  girls  and  boys  of  Cottontown. 

To  this  was  afterwards  added  a  Cottontown  school 
for  the  younger  children,  who  before  had  been  slaves  to 
the  spinner  and  doffer  carts. 

And  so  it  ran  on  several  years,  but  still  the  Bishop 
could  see  that  something  was  lacking  —  that  there  was 
too  much  sickness,  that  in  spite  of  only  eight  hours  his 
people,  year  in  and  year  out,  grew  tired  and  weak  and 
disheartened,  and  with  his  great  good  sense  he  put  his 
finger  on  it. 

"  Now,  it's  this  a-way,"  he  said  to  his  directors,  "  God 
never  intended  for  any  people  to  work  all  the  time  be 
tween  walls  an'  floors.  Tilling  the  soil  is  the  natural 
work  of  man,  an'  there  is  somethin'  in  the  very  touch  of 
the  ground  to  our  feet  that  puts  new  life  in  our  bodies. 

"  The  farmin'  instinct  is  so  natural  in  us  that  you 
can't  stop  it  by  flood  or  drought  or  failure.  Year  in  an' 
year  out  the  farmer  will  plant  an'  work  his  crop  in  spite 


THE  MODEL  MILE  641 

of  failure,  hopin'  every  year  to  hit  it  the  nex'  time. 
Would  a  merchant  or  manufacturer  or  anybody  else  do 
that?  No,  they'd  make  an  assignment  the  second  year 
of  failure.  But  not  so  with  the  farmer,  and  it  shows 
God  intended  he  shu'd  keep  at  it. 

"  Now,  I'm  goin'  to  give  this  mill  a  chance  to  raise 
its  own  cotton,  besides  everything  else  its  people  needs  to 
eat.  I  figger  we  can  raise  cotton  cheaper  than  we  can 
buy  it,  an'  keep  our  folks  healthy,  too." 

Near  Cottontown  was  an  old  cotton  plantation  of  four 
thousand  acres.  It  had  been  sadly  neglected  and  run 
down.  This  the  bishop  purchased  for  the  company  for 
only  ten  dollars  an  acre,  and  divided  it  into  tracts  of 
twenty  acres  each,  building  a  neat  cottage,  dairy  and 
barn,  and  other  outhouses  on  each  tract  —  but  all  ar 
ranged  for  a,  family  of  four  or  five,  and  thus  sprang  up 
in  a  year  a  new  settlement  of  two  hundred  families  around 
Cottontown.  It  was  no  trouble  to  get  them,  for  the 
fame  of  The  Model  Mill  had  spread,  and  far  more  ap 
plied  yearly  for  employment  than  could  be  accommo 
dated.  This  large  farm,  when  equipped  fully,  repre 
sented  fifty  thousand  dollars  more,  or  an  investment  of 
ninety  thousand  dollars,  and  immediately  became  a  val 
uable  asset  of  the  mill. 

It  was  divided  into  four  parts,  each  under  the  super 
vision  of -a  manager,  a  practical  and  experienced  cotton 
farmer  of  the  valley,  and  the  tenants  were  selected  every 
year  from  among  all  the  workers  of  the  mill,  preference 
always  being  given  to  the  families  who  needed  the  out 
door  work  most,  and  those  physically  weak  from  long 

work  in  the  mill.     It  was  so  arranged  that  only  fifty 
41 


642        THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

families,  or  one-fourth  of  the  mill,  went  out  each  year, 
staying  four  years  each  on  the  farm.  And  thus  every 
four  years  were  two  hundred  families  given  the  chance 
in  the  open  to  get  in  touch  with  nature,  the  great  physi 
cian,  and  come  again.  After  four  years  they  went  back 
to  the  mill,  sunburnt,  swarthy,  and  full  of  health,  and 
what  is  greater  than  health, —  cheerfulness  —  the  cheer 
fulness  that  comes  with  change. 

On  the  farm  they  received  the  same  wages  as  when  in 
the  mill,  and  each  family  was  furnished  with  a  mule,  a 
cow,  and  poultry,  and  with  a  good  garden. 

To  reclaim  this  land  and  build  up  the  soil  was  now 
the  chief  work  of  the  old  man ;  but  having  been  overseer 
on  a  large  cotton  plantation,  he  knew  his  business,  and 
set  to  work  at  it  with  all  the  zeal  and  good  sense  of  his 
nature. 

He  knew  that  cotton  was  one  of  the  least  exhaustive 
crops  of  the  world,  taking  nearly  all  its  sustenance  from 
the  air,  and  that  it  was  also  one  of  the  most  easily  raised, 
requiring  none  of  the  complicated  and  expensive  ma 
chinery  necessary  for  wheat  and  other  smaller  grains. 
He  knew,  too,  that  under  the  thorough  preparation  of 
the  soil  necessary  for  cotton,  wheat  did  best  after  it, 
and  with  clover  sown  on  the  wheat,  he  would  soon  have 
nature's  remedy  for  reclaiming  the  soil.  He  also  knew 
that  the  most  expensive  feature  of  cotton  raising  was  the 
picking  —  the  gathering  of  the  crop  —  and  in  the  chil 
dren  of  Cottontown,  he  saw  at  once  that  he  had  a  quick 
solution  —  one  which  solved  the  picking  problem  and 
yet  gave  to  each  growing  boy  and  girl  three  months,  in 
the  cool,  delightful  fall,  of  healthful  work,  with  pay  more 


THE  MODEL  MILL  643 

than  equal  to  a  year  of  the  old  cheap  labor  behind  the 
spinners.  For, —  as  it  proved,  at  seventy-five  cents  per 
hundred  pounds  for  the  seed  cotton  picked, —  these  chil 
dren  earned  from  seventy-five  cents  to  a  dollar  and  a  half 
a  day.  The  first  year,  only  half  of  the  land  was  put  in 
cotton,  attention  being  given  to  reclaiming  the  other 
half.  But  even  this  proved  a  surprise  for  all,  for  nearly 
one  thousand  bales  of  cotton  were  ginned,  at  a  total  cost 
to  the  mill  of  only  four  cents  per  pound,  while  Cotton- 
town  had  been  fed  during  summer  with  all  the  vegetables 
and  melons  needed  —  all  raised  on  the  farm. 

That  fall,  the  land,  under  the  clean  and  constant  plow 
ing  necessary  to  raise  the  cotton,  was  ready  to  sow  in 
wheat,  which  in  February  was  followed  with  clover  — 
nature's  great  fertilizer  —  the  clover  being  sown  broad 
cast  on  the  wheat,  behind  a  light  harrow  run  over  the 
wheat.  The  wheat  crop  was  small,  averaging  less  than 
ten  bushels  to  the  acre,  but  it  was  enough  to  keep  all 
Cottontown  in  bread  for  a  year,  or  until  the  next  har 
vest  time,  and  some,  even,  to  sell.  Behind  the  wheat,  af 
ter  it  was  mowed,  came  the  clover,  bringing  in  good  divi 
dends.  After  two  years,  it  was  turned  under,  and  then  it 
was  that  the  two  thousand  acres  of  land  produced  fifteen 
hundred  bales  of  cotton  at  a  total  cost  of  four  cents  per 
pound,  or  twenty  dollars  per  bale.  And  this  included 
everything,  even  the  interest  on  the  money  and  the  pay 
ing  of  seventy-five  cents  per  hundred  pounds  to  the 
Cottontown  children  for  picking  and  storing  the  crop. 

In  a  few  years,  under  this  rotation,  the  farm  produced 
all  the  cotton  necessary  to  run  The  Model  Mill,  besides 


644         THE  BISHOP  OF  COTTONTOWN 

raising  all  its  vegetables,  fruit,  and  bread  for  all  the 
families  of  Cottontown. 

But  the  most  beautiful  sight  to  the  old  man  was  to  see 
the  children  every  fall  picking  the  cotton.  Little  boys 
and  girls,  who  before  had  worked  twelve  hours  a  day  in 
the  old,  hot,  stifling,  ill-smelling  mill,  now  stood  out  in 
the  sunshine  and  in  the  frosty  air  of  the  mornings,  each 
with  sack  to  side,  waist  deep  in  pure  white  cotton,  flooded 
in  sunshine  and  health  and  sweetness. 

They  were  deft  with  their  fingers  —  the  old  mill  had 
taught  many  of  them  that  —  and  their  pay,  daily,  ran 
from  seventy-five  cents  to  a  dollar  and  a  half  —  as  much 
as  some  of  them  had  earned  in  a  week  of  the  old  way. 
And,  oh,  the  health  of  it,  the  glory  of  air  and  sky  and 
sunshine,  the  smell  of  dew  on  the  bruised  cotton-heads, 
the  rustle  of  the  mountain  breeze  cooling  the  heated 
cheeks ;  the  healthy  hunger,  and  the  lunches  in  the  shade 
by  the  cool  spring;  the  shadows  of  evening  creeping 
down  from  the  mountains,  the  healthy  fatigue  —  and 
the  sweet  home-going  in  the  twilight,  riding  beneath  the 
silent  stars  on  wagons  of  snowy  seed  cotton,  burrowing 
in  bed  of  down  and  purest  white  —  this  snow  of  a 
Southern  summer  —  with  the  happy  laughter  of  child 
hood  and  the  hunger  of  home-coming,  and  the  glory  and 
freedom  of  it  all! 

THE  END. 


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